So Deep the Night and Far To Go
by Ella Greggs
Summary: AU/Crack!Fic - The Glee characters have never met each other and lead very different lives. Kurt's about to collide with all of them in the most bizarre ways as he heads into the New York night to stop a premonition of disaster from coming true for his ex-boyfriend Dave. Some want to help him, some want to hinder him, and some just plain *want* him. You choose the ending!
1. Prologue: The Witching Hour

****Author's Note: ****Hi, guys! I wanted to write an AU story where all the characters stay in-character, but have completely different relationships to one another, and this is the result. I should say this is the second result, because I've revised the story somewhat since it's original publication. In particular, there are two endings and you get to choose which one you want.

****Summary: ****AU. The _Glee_ characters have never met each other and lead very different lives. But that all changes when Kurt heads off into the New York night to prevent a premonition of disaster from coming true for his ex-boyfriend Dave Karofsky. Along the way, he gets into the most bizarre situations involving the strangest people! Some want to help him, some want to hinder him, and some just plain *want* him. Amid the chaos and insanity, will Kurt reach Dave in time? Kurt-centric with Kurtofsky, but features the entire regular cast and several recurring _Glee_ characters.

****Disclaimer: ****If I owned __Glee__, they'd sing more show tunes and Adam Lambert would have a recurring role as Kurt's older, wiser and even more fabulous countertenor cousin.

****Rating/Warnings:****** Rated T **for foul language, sexually suggestive situations, mild violence and minor character death. Peppered in amidst the wacky fun are a couple fight scenes and some disturbing imagery. If you want more explicit information about possible triggers, feel free to email me.

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><p><strong><strong>Prologue: The Witching Hour<strong>**

The corridor was freezing, practically Arctic. It didn't help that he was barefoot, which really made no sense, since he was otherwise immaculately dressed in the most magnificent silk-wool blended black and white Christian Dior ensemble. Could he possibly have driven to the hospital without shoes and socks?

Something was wrong with the hospital, too. As the visitor made his way towards the far room, a private room, the diamond white hallway seemed to telescope and extend into infinity. At this rate, he'd never get there before visiting hours ended. The bouquet in his hand started to wilt and he frowned. This would never do. The person he was visiting, he... she... he... um... who __was __he visiting? Well, it didn't really matter, whoever it was, they were sick and he was there to be supportive, to cheer them up and maybe even sing them something. Damn! He hadn't prepared any song.

Suddenly from every open doorway harsh glaring lights flooded the corridor and he couldn't see. From all sides he was bombarded with derisive whispers:

"No song? Withered flowers and no song?"

"What kind of friend are you?"

"He was counting on you."

"Now he's dead for sure."

The visitor dropped the flowers and started to run blindly. Time was running out and he had to see the patient. The corridor was dark now. All the doors leading off it were closed and the walls were dishwater grey. When did the color change? Well, it didn't matter, he was nearing the end. Finally! The last room was sealed by an iron door with a big round valve instead of a door knob.

"Visiting hours are now over," a high-pitched female voice chirped over the public address system. "All guests must leave immediately."

No! He had to see the patient behind the iron door. It was critical. It was life or death! He grabbed the valve and strained to turn it. Not a movement, not a budge. He gripped it again, hands now cramping and stinging, and threw all his weight against it. Nothing.

He began throwing himself against the door, pounding his fists on it, screaming in panic. Suddenly he stopped, because now his bare feet were warm and wet. Looking down, he saw red seeping from under the door. No, not red. Crimson. Blood. He jumped back and stared at the door. There was a word on it now.

**MORGUE**

With an anguished cry, he hurled himself one last time at the spiteful barrier and … fell flat on his belly in front of a sterile steel table.

No. No no no no no. He simply wouldn't look. If he didn't look, it wouldn't be true.

"_I spent so many mornings_," a male voice whispered hoarsely.

He climbed to his knees. His Dior suit was drenched in blood, completely ruined.

_"J-j___ust trying ... to resist...you," __the man on the table sang haltingly in a strange, reedy tone.

The visitor rose to his full height, and stared down at the body, now covered completely with a white sheet.

__"I'm trembling now." __The man's voice seemed to be fading, yet the diction was smoother. _"Y___ou can't know how I missed you."__

His heart was pounding unbearably now. He had to see, because it just wasn't possible. The visitor ripped the sheet off the figure. Dave's dull, unfocused eyes and blue lips were unmoving. His once-rich baritone, now hollow and distant, arose from the angry wide gash across his throat.

_"___Everything's as if we never said goodbye."__

Kurt bolted upright in bed. And screamed... and screamed.. and screamed...


	2. Of Sweat and Premonitions

**Chapter 2: Of Sweat and Premonitions**

"Kurt? Are you alright?"

When he finally stopped hyperventilating, Kurt registered tapping on his apartment door and the high, tremulous voice of his multi-phobic neighbor Emma Pillsbury. He looked at the clock. 11:25 PM.

"Kurt! Kurt, open this door!" Her soft taps became louder thuds. "I heard screaming, are you being attacked? If you're being attacked, kick him in the unmentionables! Answer me, Kurt!"

As much as he appreciated the concern, Kurt couldn't resist rolling his eyes when he heard her start to hyperventilate. Emma was a classic 'sympathy spaz'.

"I'm alright, Emma," he called in as steady a voice as he could muster, which was surprisingly steady, thanks to years and years of vocal training. Kurt blinked rapidly and the waking world gradually became more real. His blue silk pajamas were damp with perspiration and his jaw hurt, apparently from clenching during the hellish dream. "I'll open the door, but you might want to hold your nose. I'm pretty sweaty."

"Oh? Oh! __That __kind of screaming. I...um... I didn't realize, Kurt." Overcome with embarrassment, the prim and proper immunologist began babbling quickly. "I'm so sorry to disturb you. And your friend," she added hastily, picking up speed. "Uh, say 'hi' for me to whomever it is. Well, I suppose it must be a man, of course. So, yes, say 'hi' to your gentleman caller and I'll just slip away so you two can get back to... um... I mean, I __assume __there are only two of you... but I'm not passing judgment if you've got a more... um... plural arrangement… Actually, even if it's just you in there alone, that's perfectly okay, too, and not anyone else's business. Self-pleasuring is completely natural and healthy, no matter what Mother says."

Kurt straightened his pajamas with one hand, while he quickly flipped the deadbolts on his door with the other, trying all the while to quell his trembling. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he pulled the door open and smiled sweetly at the flustered woman. Kurt knew his screams could practically shatter glass, and could only imagine what they must have done to her nerves. But he wasn't smiling out of guilt, and he wasn't smiling at her prudish euphemisms. He was smiling because amid all the 33 residents on that floor of their apartment building, only Emma had cared enough to come check on him. God help me if I ever __do __get attacked in this rat-trap, Kurt thought ruefully.

"See, still in one piece," he said, faking a calm he did not at all feel. "And I'm the one to apologize. I was having a nightmare about a guy I used to know." Emma's huge doe eyes widened with curiosity "Well, an ex-boyfriend. It was..." He was going to say it was no big deal. He was going to say he was fine. But the image of Dave, dead, cold and mutilated, flickered in his cyan eyes and he started to unravel. "It was... Oh, Emma, it was __horrific!__" Kurt began to sob and without hesitation Emma folded him into a gentle embrace.

They weren't close friends. Just chatted a bit in the elevator, helped carry groceries, watered each other's plants when one went out of town, that sort of thing. She'd only been in his modest but tastefully decorated apartment once before. They were both fundamentally private people. But Emma closed the door and nudged him onto his cream Bjork dromedar loveseat. Then she sat lightly beside him, rubbing his back and making soft, maternal shushing noises, as Kurt choked out the details of his nightmare.

"Pretty pathetic, huh? A grown man sniveling over a nonsensical dream about a guy I haven't seen for years." Kurt plucked self-consciously at his drying pajama top, finally getting the last of his sniffles under control

Emma's countenance became very serious. She straightened her posture deliberately, and then bent forward slightly to fuss with the fashion magazines on Kurt's coffee table. She sorted them alphabetically, and then resorted them in descending order of size as she spoke. Her voice was eerily controlled and measured.

"Kurt, do you believe in premonitions? Some people call it divine revelation, some people call it heightened intuition."

"I..." Kurt hesitated. He wanted to say no. But there was that one time, wasn't there, when he auditioned with like 800 other guys for the bit part in __Legally Blonde: The Series__, which turned out to be his "big break," and he just knew he was going to get it, even before his agent called a few hours later.

"I..." And then there was that time in middle school, when he woke from another nightmare, crying and clinging to his dad. He couldn't remember the dream, but he was in such hysterics Burt had to stay home from the garage that morning. Thank god the other mechanics got out before the fire reached the gasoline tanks. And even farther back, as a young boy –

Kurt's breath hitched and his eyes flew wide. He'd forgotten. No, not forgotten. __Repressed___._ In the playground at recess, swinging away on the jungle gym, laughing and clowning with the other kids, when suddenly his little eight-year old soul was engulfed in crushing, overwhelming grief. That night, driving home from work, Katherine Elizabeth Hummel, beloved wife and mother, released her last earthly breath amid the wreckage of a four-car pileup.

"Do __you __believe in premonitions?"

"I'm a scientist. I was trained to accept the truth of hypotheses only when all efforts to prove them wrong have been exhausted. But yes," The red head's eyes were shining with moisture now and she grasped Kurt's hand almost painfully hard and nodded vigorously, "I agree with Hamlet."

"_There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,_" Kurt recited. "I know it sounds stupid, Emma, but I can't shake the feeling that the dream was a warning, that Dave's in terrible danger. You don't think I'm overreacting?"

"I don't think you are overreacting."

"What should I do?" His voice was very small and fragile.

"Do you know how to reach Dave, where he lives?"

"The last time we spoke was when I told him to get out of my life forever. He moved in with a college buddy in lower Manhattan. Finn something. That was six years ago, just after he got his accounting license. Dave always liked numbers." Kurt's mouth quirked up at the corners, although he didn't realize it. "That was eight plays, four college credits, three unsuccessful sitcom pilots, one soap opera and several long-term gentlemen callers ago."

"And a partridge in a pear tree," Emma replied with mock solemnity. Kurt gave a light laugh and immediately felt better. "I think you have to find him, Kurt, for your own peace of mind, if nothing else."

"Then I have to do it now, right away!" Kurt jumped up and looked again at the clock. 12:07 AM. Based on past experience, his premonitions had a short shelf life. If he failed, Dave could be dead by morning.


	3. The Many Kinks of Jacob ben Israel

****Chapter 3: The Many Kinks of Jacob ben-Israel****

Emma offered to stay and help, but Kurt said he really couldn't impose on her like that. And anyway, he wasn't going to do anything taxing, just make a phone call or two. So after wishing the kindhearted woman goodnight, Kurt gave a quick call to 411, but of course Dave was unlisted. __Everyone__ in New York was unlisted. He booted up his computer. Thank god for the internet, he thought as he quickly typed "Dave Karofsky, New York NY" into the search bar. Almost immediately an entry came back: __David Karofsky, Mercer and Associates.__ Kurt was both relieved and supremely annoyed. Of course it wouldn't be that easy! The midtown address was obviously his office, which didn't help since it was the middle of the night. But now at least he knew Dave still lived in Manhattan. Kurt debated even trying the phone number for Mercer and Associates. Nothing to lose, right?

He dialed quickly and held his breath. After several rings, the voice mail system kicked in.

_"___Hello,"__ he heard and Kurt's heartbeat quickened. That voice! It had been six years since he last heard that smooth, husky baritone. __"This is David Karofsky, Junior Vice President of Mercer and Associates." __That voice used to do things to Kurt, make him feel warm and safe and nervous and awkward and... excited. Kurt blushed scarlet, although there was no one there to see. __"I can't take your call right now, but if you leave your name, number and the time you called, I will get back to you as soon as possible." __Kurt panicked when he heard the beep. What should he do? What should he say? Hang up, hang up! He snapped his phone shut.

"This is ridiculous," Kurt scolded himself, glaring at the phone as if blaming it for his confusion. "He's just a guy you used to know, nothing else. Absolutely no reason to be nervous." He took a calming breath and redialed the number. __"Hello. This is David Karofsky..."__ Dave Karofsky! How many nights did Kurt lie awake after they met, wondering, trying to figure out what to make of Dave Karofsky? __"...leave your name, number and the time..."__ As the deep, masculine voice continued, Kurt was mortified to see some ..ahem...__interest __developing his pajama bottoms. Ugh! This was beyond pathetic, getting aroused over a pre-recorded message. Kurt tried to focus on the magazines on the coffee table.

"Uh, hi Dave. This is Kurt." He sounded like he'd been sucking helium. Kurt cleared his throat and tried for a lower pitch. "I know we've been out of touch for a really long time" (because I walked out on you) "I hope you're doing well." For Christ's sake, it's not an ice cream social. Cut to the chase! "Listen, I know this is going to sound strange, but I had a dream about you. A nightmare, actually, and it was really vivid and upsetting. Your... your throat was slashed and I was covered in your blood." Kurt grimaced. Worst. Phone Message. Ever! He hoped the chuckle he forced out sounded convincing. "I know, pretty messed up, right? Anyway, I just thought I should... um... check on you or warn you or something." Kurt's mind went blank. Was there anything else to say? "So... uh... take care of yourself. Sorry to bother you." Lame, so lame. "Well, I guess I'll go back to bed. To sleep, I mean, I'm not seeing anyone right now." Why the hell did he say that? As if Dave could possibly care about Kurt's love life after six years. "Oh, and I'm fine by the way," he threw in, on the off chance Dave gave a damn after the way Kurt had treated him. "Still acting in – " The beep brought him up short.

Kurt closed the phone in defeat, knowing that cringe-worthy call would be completely ineffective, unless some dire accounting emergency occurred that required Dave to check his messages at 1 AM. A rogue percentage point, perhaps?

Kurt tapped his fingers against his chin, and tried to think systematically. Was there anywhere else… Facebook! He returned to the computer and typed in "David Karofsky, Facebook." A profile page popped up, complete with photo. Damn, Dave was looking __fine___!_ Same broad shoulders, same strong jaw, mischievous hazel eyes, the dark curly hair. His face was more angular than when Kurt had last seen him, more chiseled. Relationship status: Single. Hmm...no, no, no. You're not after a date, Kurt, you're trying to save the man's life. Kurt tried to ignore his cock, which was twitching for attention again. No other information was available to people who weren't 'friends', just the option to send a message. But Kurt couldn't think of a way to draft an email that wouldn't sound even crazier than the phone message he'd just left, and anyway Dave still wouldn't see it right away. The feeling of dread grew stronger as Kurt sat there trying to think what to do next. Every minute that slipped by could be bringing Dave closer to that dreadful death. If he could just get a damn address... It suddenly hit Kurt who could probably help, but he scrunched his face in distaste.

Jacob ben-Israel reminded Kurt of a Ferengi, in that the building's pale, flabby, slimy superintendent made his skin crawl. Jacob had a thinning afro and glasses look that, combined with his high-pitched nasal drone, fit perfectly with his weird creeper/stalker vibe. He was always sneaking drooling looks after the female tenants, Emma included, and giggling nervously to himself. In fact, it was hard to understand how any woman could live there willingly, knowing Jacob had a master key to the apartments.

But the repulsive janitor was also a total computer geek. Kurt threw on a robe and made his way to the basement apartment. As he got closer to Jacob's door, he heard grunts and groans and moans and whimpers getting louder and louder. "Oh, J.J.," a high female voice wailed breathlessly, "you're so __big___!_" Jacob was getting some action? Kurt smirked. Probably a woman of negotiable affections, as Emma might say. Kurt knocked loudly on the door and then stood back so he could be clearly seen through the peep-hole. The bedroom noises didn't cease, but their volume dropped. Ah, porn! The great American pastime.

"Uh, what can I do for you, Mr. Hummel?" Jacob was standing in his boxers and a wife beater, holding a pillow in front of his crotch. Behind him, the same movie was playing on three large computer screens. In it, a naked male avatar was enthusiastically drilling an equally nude female avatar. The computer-generated woman had long, dark hair, modest breasts, a tiny waist and a firm, round ass. She kept shouting, "Give it to me, big man! Harder, harder!" The virtual man had a pasty complexion, frizzy auburn hair, a round face, glasses and …no, that was just wrong!

"Before you say anything," Jacob continued, watching Kurt stare at the virtual porn, "if you've come here seeking recreational narcotics, I'm completely out of that business, despite any rumors Mrs. Jackson in 15C might have spread. Although," he continued in a confiding tone, "I might know someone who knows someone." Kurt shook his head minutely, and glanced around the dark apartment. The place looked like an S&M dungeon with no maid service. Whips, chains, gag balls, riding crops, dildos of various sizes and colors, plus a whole bunch of other sex toys Kurt couldn't even name, were hanging on the walls or scattered about, while papers and empty cartons of Chinese food covered the floor. A gimp costume – yes, an honest-to-god gimp costume – hung in the corner. Kurt made a mental note to warn Emma never to let the super into her apartment. __Ever___._

"Then perhaps you're interested in my newest entrepreneurial venture – customized virtual porn? Avatar sex. All I need is a photo of you and the person you want to be your partner. Or partners," he added, and Kurt wondered why everyone seemed to assume he was into three-ways. "And then a list of what you want each one to do to the other, and for how long. You know, sixty-nine for 5 minutes, back scuttle for 5 minutes, dirty sanchez, golden shower, santorum snack – "

"No, I -"

"If you just want your enormously endowed avatars to do something vanilla but with special costuming – school uniforms, French maid outfits, cowboys, police officers, clowns – that kind of thing is easy to – "

"That wasn't – "

"Don't worry." Jacob's eyes grew bright and manic. "You're not limited to your actual physical attributes or things you would only do in real life," He was practically salivating. "Triolism, voraphilia, zooerasty, pygmalionism, necrophilia, – really anything is possible. Except underage avatars. I won't touch that perverted shit."

"Zooer...? Jacob, stop! I did not come down here in the dead of night to commission kinky cyber porn."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hummel. I didn't mean to offend you," Jacob whined obsequiously. He licked his lips nervously and gave Kurt an oily head-to-toe leer that caused Kurt to double check the strength of his bathrobe belt knot. "You're not really my type, but I guess if I'm going to branch into creating gay porn it will be good to have some real life experience. But no commitments, understand? I'm too much man to be tied down." Kurt's mouth formed a little 'o' of incredulity. "I didn't mean it that way." Jacob clumsily placed a reassuring hand on Kurt's arm (now I'll have to burn this robe, Kurt thought sadly). "You can __absolutely__ tie me down, Kurtie. And use the hot wax, too. Just don't think it means you own me."

Kurt pressed the heels of his palms to his temples and shook his head to dispel that revolting image. He drew a deep breath. "Listen, Jacob, I just want your help finding the address of an old friend of mine. It's urgent that I get hold of him right away, and I thought maybe you could hack into his Facebook account or something for me."

Jacob blinked slowly a few times and then gave Kurt a look of contempt. "Is __that__ all? Mere child's play, my effeminate friend." He moved some handcuffs and what looked to be a riding crop off the chair next to his desk and motioned Kurt to sit at one of the keyboards. Kurt told Jacob the name and Jacob pulled up Dave's Facebook page.

"Any new scandals on the show?" Jacob asked absentmindedly as he jumped from screen to screen, trying to breach the site's firewalls before his own series of fake IP addresses got blocked.

"An old flame has reentered my character's life, causing a jealous rift between me and my husband. But what August didn't learn before he slipped into a coma is that my ex-boyfriend 'Troy' is actually my former pimp, back to blackmail me about my dark past as a male escort and cocaine addict."

Kurt laughed at the cliché of it all. For the past three years, he had played 'Vaughn', the scheming, bitchy 20-something trophy husband of 'G. August Haviland Kittridge IV', the much older, foppish industrial tycoon and compulsive philanthropist, patron saint of Mercy General, apparently the only hospital – located next to the only police station, which was conveniently situated near both the right side __and__ the wrong side of the tracks – in the fictional town of Port Harbor on the daytime drama __Secret Passions, Secret Shames___._ It wasn't exactly Kurt's dream job. The part was fairly small and there was no occasion on the show for him to sing. On the other hand, Vaughn dressed fashionably and got some wicked bitchy lines, and the gig came with a steady paycheck, which was nothing to sneer at in this economy. There seemed to be no place for him in prime time TV so Kurt figured he'd maintain his voice and stick with Vaughn for a few more years, and then try again for a Broadway musical.

"Got it!" Jacob cried triumphantly. He handed Kurt a print-out of the address, complete with color photo of the street view.

"Thank you, Jacob," Kurt said sincerely. "If I run across anyone who wants customized virtual fetish porn, I will certainly send them your way."

Jacob took the pillow off his lap and gave himself over to his multi-screen fantasy brunette, as Kurt bolted for the stairs. 12:56 AM.


	4. Taxi to the Dark Side

****Author's Note: ****Before Kurt heads off into the night in the city that never sleeps, I want to caveat that __any __resemblance between my New York City, its neighborhoods and residents, and the __real__ New York City is purely coincidental.

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><p><strong><strong>Chapter 4: Taxi to the Dark Side<strong>**

Now some people, when racing to prevent the grisly death of an old friend, would probably just throw on any old jeans and t-shirt. But being Kurt Hummel carried with it certain obligations, and one of them was to look fabulous at all times. Besides, he needed to do something to calm his nerves while he waited for the taxi. So, yes – judge him if you dare – Kurt took a few minutes to select the perfect 'I'm going to rescue my ex-boyfriend' outfit. Slim-cut black slacks with black knee-high lace up boots – that was a no-brainer. Burgundy button-down with black checker-square accents on the collar, placket and cuffs. Red always complimented his fair complexion and dark hair. (The fact that it was Dave's favorite color had nothing to do with anything.) A fitted dark gray double-breasted vest to bring out the green-grey-blue of his eyes. It was still a little cool outside, so his long black cotton coat with the crazy asymmetrical zippers and a gray and red graphic print Prada scarf and he was done. Hair? Well, there wasn't time to do anything other than brush it, do a quick whip-around of hairspray and hope for the best. Phone, wallet, keys and out the door by 1:14 AM.

"How long do you think it will take to get there, Mr... uh... Adams?" Kurt asked, handing the heavy-set black man the address and noting his name on the license tag that New York cabbies were required to display. Kurt was in the habit of chatting with taxi drivers, to hear different people's life experiences, listen to their speech patterns and observe their mannerisms. Careful observation of people made him a better actor.

"This place is in the East Village, just on the border with Alphabet City. At this hour, maybe 20 minutes?" the cabbie replied casually. "But hey, man, call me Azimio. 's too late at night to stand on ceremony."

"Okay, Azimio. 20 minutes – that's not so bad," Kurt nodded, mostly to himself. He wasn't familiar with that part of the city, although he knew it was an area with lots of artist types and underground clubs. The sort of neighborhood that gave New York it's 24-hour, anything-goes, life-in-overdrive reputation.

"So you headin' to a scene down there or what?" Azimio asked, bringing Kurt out of his reverie. "I hear Club Wilde's opening tonight."

"No clubs, just going to visit a friend."

"That's good, man. Friends are everything. Friends'll save your ass when no one else gives a shit. Friends'll pull you to safety when all the bullets and shells in the whole goddamn world are raining down on you. Three tours, man, two in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, and my buddies had my back through a lot of shit."

"Which service were you in?"

"Marines. Made it all the way to Master Sergeant. Yeah, a lot of shit went down over there. Never knowing where the enemy was, 'cuz he was everywhere, all around you. What kind of bullshit is that, huh? Used to be a war had a battle line. Enemy soldiers wore uniforms. No one strapped a bomb to himself and blew up a fucking market place in downtown DC during the Civil War, y'know what I'm sayin'?"

"Um, Azimio? You don't have to drive so fast. I'm not in that much of a hurry."

Azimio didn't seem to be talking to Kurt anymore. Block after block went whizzing by. "No fucking battle lines, man. Just eight years of fucking sand and ambushes and people who don't even want you in their fucking country."

"Watch out!" Kurt yelped as Azimio turned a corner too sharply and the car skidded sideways a little. The seat belt locked uncomfortably tight around Kurt's waist.

"And then some jihadi assholes decide if they're going down, they're gonna take as many poor innocent bastards with them as they can. So first a car bomb goes off and that kills about 25 people, including Rudy and James. Carl's concussed and Tom, he's got shrapnel in his leg and he's screaming, screaming his head off. Women are shrieking, kids are crying. So you rush in, y'know, 'cuz you wanna do something for these people and you gotta help your buddies, and the locals come in to help and the ambulances come, and then WHAM!" Azimio slammed on the brakes at a red light and Kurt lurched forward, belt digging cruelly into his stomach. "A second bomb, even bigger than the first. And now there's blood and body parts and twisted metal everywhere you look. So you throw your men in the humvee and get the hell outta there." The light changed and Azimio floored it, throwing Kurt back against the seat cushion.

"Hey Azimio? Azimio, I can get out right here. This is great. Right at this corner coming up. Here's $20 bucks for – " Kurt hoped his voice, which was getting louder and higher with every word, would break through the cabbie's waking nightmare.

But Azimio hunched his shoulders further over the wheel. "NO! You stay with the unit, Private! We split up now and they'll just pick us off one by one." The corner came. The corner went.

Now the cab was tearing down East Broadway. In between praying he didn't die and going into shock, Kurt registered that they were in fact heading towards the East Village in lower Manhattan.

"How much ammo we got left, Private?" Azimo shouted over his shoulder, his eyes still glued to the road ahead of him.

"Uh..." Kurt had no clue what to do. He was an actor, for crying out loud, not a therapist. Just an actor... an actor... a __damn good__ actor. Kurt raised his chin, squared his shoulders and improvised. "I'm not sure, Sarge," he answered, mimicking Azimio's tone. "If you stop the humvee I can check."

"We're not fucking stopping until we get to the safe zone, soldier!" Azimio bellowed. A sharp left. Two blocks, A sharp right, and they were heading south again, swerving and weaving through the (mercifully) light traffic. Kurt wanted to be sick, but he was damned if he'd ruin his Dolce & Gabbana jacket.

Angry motorists honked their horns in protest, stray pedestrians threw curses at the cab as it sped by. "Fuck, they're all around us!" Azimio screamed, dodging recklessly around the other cars. "We'll be trapped!"

"I have an idea, Sarge," Kurt tried not to sound frantic. "If you let me out, I'll lay down cover and you and the rest of the unit can get away." Thank you, __Courage Under Fire___!_

Azimio shook his head and Kurt's heart sank. "Can't let you do that, Private. You'd be dead before you hit the ground."

Kurt poured all the conviction he could muster into his next lines. "I'm volunteering, Sarge. Tom is my buddy. He's my __friend___,_ Sarge. I promised his mom I'd watch his back, and you've got to get him to safety for me. Please, Master Sergeant. I can __do__ this."

Azimio looked hard at Kurt through the rear-view mirror and Kurt did his best to channel Meg Ryan's steely determination from the film.

After a few agonizing seconds and another vicious right turn, Azimio nodded and the taxi screeched to a halt. Hands trembling, Kurt reached over and dropped the $20 bill in the front passenger seat. Azimio grabbed his hand and squeezed until Kurt's eyes were watering. "_Semper Fi_, Private." Then he snapped off a salute.

"_Semper Fi_, Sarge," Kurt choked out and returned the salute with considerably less precision. He threw the door open and practically crawled out of the cab. He stood in the empty street, uncertain, and looked at Azimio. The taxi driver stared back at him expectantly. Why was he still here? Oh, right! Cover fire. How was he going to manage that? In sheer desperation, Kurt lifted his arm as if pointing a gun and spun slowly around shouting "BAM! BAM, BAM, BAM!"

Azimio nodded grimly and hit the gas.

Kurt stumbled to the curb and fought the urge to kiss the side walk, instead grabbing a lamp post to steady himself as he watched the cab tear down the street and out of sight.

After several motionless minutes he checked the street signs. Unbelievable! He was only two blocks from Dave's apartment. And he'd made it there in just over 10 minutes __and__ given an Emmy-worthy performance along the way.

But now Kurt's thoughts switched back to his mission, which was to save Dave from … something. He felt it again in the pit of his stomach, that sense of mortal dread, and the weight of it increased with each step. Now that he was here ... something just felt __off___._ This threat, whatever it was, it seemed almost like a tangible thing that would reach out and crush him from the inside out. Kurt lost patience with his own slowness and jogged that last block. It would be such a relief once he knew Dave was safe. There must be some bars nearby. Once Dave (a) assured Kurt that no one had slit his throat, and (b) promised not to leave his apartment for oh, 24 hours or so, Kurt, who practically never drank, was going to get a good stiff shot of something. Or maybe ... maybe Dave would invite him in so they could catch up? Kurt got a little warm feeling at that idea. He hadn't realized how much he missed talking to Dave until he heard that voice again on the phone. They could just sit in the living room and talk until morning, like they used to when Dave was in school. That is, if Dave didn't slam the door in Kurt's face. If he even opened the door for him in the first place.

'Karofsky' wasn't listed on the outside directory, but the address from Dave's Facebook account said this was the right building. Kurt pressed the buzzer and waited. Nothing happened. He pressed it again, holding it a little longer this time. After an anxious few minutes, a sleepy male voice came over the intercom.

"Yeah?"

Kurt frowned. That wasn't Dave's voice. Did he have a boyfriend after all? Oh, that was probably the roommate, Gill or Finn or Flipper – some fishy name.

"Yes, hi. My name is Kurt. I'm __really__ sorry to disturb you at..." he checked his watch, "...1:30 in the morning, but I'm looking for David Karofsky. It's extremely important that I speak with him. It's an emergency. Is he there?"

"Nah, man," the current occupant sounded sleepy and impatient. "Dave and that other guy moved out like four years ago."

Kurt's heart stopped and his mouth went dry. "D-do you have a forwarding address or something?"

"Nope." Kurt could hear himself being dismissed. "They could be in Timbuktu for all I know. Sorry."

The intercom clicked off and suddenly Kurt felt like he'd lost everything he ever held dear in this world. A wave of vertigo hit and as much as he hated getting his Calvin Kline trousers dirty, the wisest course seemed to be just to sit down on the front steps and breath until he regained control.

Dave was gone and Kurt... Kurt was running out of time.


	5. Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

****Chapter 5: Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang****

"God, I need a drink!" Kurt muttered. Yes, he'd get something to drink and take a few minutes to figure out what to do. Maybe he __should__go to Dave's office... at least he knew Dave would show up there eventually. He finally regained his feet and headed towards Second Avenue. New York truly is the city that never sleeps, and Kurt made a beeline for the nearest bodega.

"Do you stock Naked?" he asked the cashier without really looking at him.

"Are you talking about the juice or is that a proposition?" the cashier shot back with a wink.

Now Kurt looked at him. Oblong face, balding but thankfully no heinous comb-over. Glasses. Late-50s, maybe? The cashier was leaning forward on the counter, trying way too hard to look casual yet seductive, and failing miserably at both.

Kurt gave him a withering look. "Just the juice, thanks. I'm not interested in how you spend your spare time." Normally, Kurt wouldn't be this rude to a complete stranger. But he was tired and worried and vexed. The very last thing he needed was a flirtatious gay cougar with really bad fashion sense. A pale orange shirt with a neon yellow scarf, really?

"Oooh," the man crooned, "I like 'em feisty!" He licked his lips.

Ugh! Another one who got off on Kurt's bitchy side. "Look, Mister – "

"Sandy. But my lovers call me the Pink Dagger." Sandy threw Kurt a skeevy grin.

Kurt dialed down the bitch face from level 7 to level 5, so as not to encourage the older man, and said dismissively, "I'll pretend I didn't hear that. How about AriZona diet green tea?"

"You seem stressed, ...uh ..." When, after several silent seconds of awkwardness, it became clear Kurt had no intention of offering his name, Sandy continued, bloodied but unbowed. "There's a cot in the stock room. Why don't you come back there and let the Pink Dagger work his magic. I've developed the Ryerson Relaxer massage, an erotic blend of Shiatsu and Swedish techniques, combined with my own finely honed instinct for pleasure, that uses essential oils to enhance – "

Kurt's bitch face shot to level 10. "Look, Sandy, I'm sorry to be so blunt, but I'm having a really rough night and I just don't have the patience to let you down gently. So here's the 411 – I have __zero interest__ in you. I've known lawn furniture I was more attracted to." Sandy seemed to sag and grow older. Kurt immediately felt a pang of remorse. "Sorry, that was uncalled for. Honestly, Sandy, the way I feel now, I'd probably turn down Daniel Craig in an Armani tux." Kurt gave him a pleading look. "I just want my juice."

"Aisle 3," Sandy mumbled, trying to sound bored rather than deflated. "And just so you know," the disappointed cashier called after him as Kurt headed for the aisle, "I have a boyfriend. And he's __much ___better_ looking than __you___._"

Kurt rolled his eyes. Highly unlikely, he thought, on both counts. Kurt knew he was beautiful, even gorgeous, according to producers and modeling agents. And these were people in a position to know, right? It didn't make him stuck up... well, not too much. But being handsome gave him certain advantages in the urban jungle. Mostly, he was __never__desperate. When Kurt went looking for sex, he could afford to have pretty high standards. When he went looking for love, it was romance on his own terms or not at all. That was Dave's fault, really. After things didn't work out with him, Kurt vowed never to open himself up to that kind of hurt again. So now Kurt decided early on exactly what he wanted from a man – friendship, sex, or romance. He picked one category and stuck to the appropriate script, and if the men wanted to be part of Kurt's life, they did too. End of discussion. Of course, such connections were doomed to failure, since, paradoxical as he knew it was, Kurt couldn't help but have contempt for the men who agreed to his terms.

A tall, very pretty blonde with a long, aquiline nose was standing in front of the pet supplies section, earnestly contemplating two cans of cat food. She turned to him as he passed by, looking very concerned.

"Excuse me," she started, "can you tell me – " Suddenly she gasped. "Oh my God! Vaughn Kittridge! What are __you__doing here?"

Kurt couldn't help smiling in spite of his thirst and fatigue. This happened once in a while, fans of __Secret Passions__recognizing him. It was flattering, particularly at 1:45 in the morning, when he'd barely slept, wasn't wearing any make-up and his hair was a mess, three states of being that were very out of character for his vain alter-ego.

"I'm so glad you like the show," Kurt said, sliding smoothly into gracious-actor mode and offering his hand to his adoring public of one.

"Is August here?" She looked around expectantly. "Are you guys going to Club Wilde for opening night? I didn't think August would be into that kind of thing."

Kurt was taken aback. Fans who didn't know his name called him Vaughn all the time, but this woman seemed to think he actually _w___as__Vaughn, that Vaughn was real.

"No," he began, "I... my name is Kurt Hummel. Vaughn is my character on – "

"It's okay," she dropped her voice and leaned in conspiratorially. "You guys don't want the publicity, I understand. So," she raised her voice deliberately louder than necessary, "... um... __Kurt___,_ do you know anything about cat allergies? My vet says Lord Tubbington is allergic the Fancy Feast Salmon Delight I bought at Safeway. But if I buy it from some other place that should be okay, right?"

Before Kurt could answer, they were both startled by shouting at the front of the store.

"Hey, you two! Wanna take your disgusting display of hetero lust elsewhere? I've got a delicate stomach!"

Looking up, Kurt saw a muscular man with a mohawk and a tall, heavy-set woman with dark hair groping each other in the store doorway. They were wearing matching black Hell's Angels bomber jackets, which could be souvenirs, but somehow Kurt didn't think so. The woman had shoved the man against the door jamb roughly and was attacking his lips. He groaned loudly when she moved her hand south of his well-defined torso. He gripping the back of her head to harden the kiss. In response, the woman began to grind against him.

Kurt decided he'd buy his juice elsewhere, and started towards the door, intending to politely ask to pass by. Real Hell's Angels or not, this didn't look like a couple that responded well to being ordered around. Unfortunately for Kurt, Sandy didn't realize that.

"Hel-_looo!_ I'm not kidding, Troglodyte One and Troglodyte Two," the cashier taunted, moving from behind the counter to confront the couple. "Come in and buy something or leave, but don't stand there playing horny-horny hippos. This is a bodega, not a brothel. Judging by the size of your girlfriend, there must be something in here she'll eat."

Without even breaking the kiss, the man opened his eyes, reached behind him, pulled out a handgun and pointed it steadily at Sandy. Kurt wisely stopped moving.

"Just a minute, baby," the man murmured as he gently disengaged. The large woman readjusted her black-rimmed glasses, crossed her arms in annoyance and pouted. "Dude, that was totally rude. I was just gonna rob your store, but now I'm gonna kick your ass first."

"No no, babe," the woman said confidently, patting his well-developed bicep. She had a surprisingly sweet, soft voice. "You know Mama can take care of herself." She turned on Sandy with a cruel smile. The cashier blanched and the woman looked disappointed. "That? Seriously, Puck, you were gonna waste your energy on that?" She gestured to Kurt, who was standing just beyond Sandy, in front of the dairy display. "I'll bet even Powder Puff over there could take him."

"Whatever. I'm bored. Let's get the cash and split." The man – Puck – spotted the cat lady trying to move towards the back of the store. "Hey, Blondie! Come join the party. Don't worry, ladies," he soothed as she and Kurt exchanged worried glances, "no one wants to hurt you. Now down on the floor, arms out in front."

Kurt made a face but complied. As little as dirt and sticky grime went with his outfit, the bullet wound look would be so much harder to rock. The pretty blonde lay down next to him, sobbing softly, still clutching the Fancy Feast can. Kurt turned his face to her.

"Hey," he said quietly, "it's going to be okay. What's your name?"

"Brittany."

"It's going to be okay, Brittany. We just have to stay calm and do what they say and not make them angry."

Brittany nodded slightly and got her sniffles under control."Yes, Vaughn." Kurt felt a strong surge of protectiveness towards this strange, child-like woman who seemed so trusting and so vulnerable.

"Babe, get the money from the cash register," Puck called to the woman.

"Open up, Mop and Glow," the woman growled, pushing Sandy behind the counter.

"You two, put your wallets and cell phones in front of you. Slowly!"

Kurt started to pull the items from his pants pockets, but Brittany began crying again. "Please," she wailed pitifully, "I had to beg Santana for months to let me buy the model with the GPS app so I wouldn't keep getting lost in the Virgin Mega-Store. She'll be so mad at me if something happens to it." Kurt felt emboldened when Puck seemed to waiver.

"Can I keep my phone, too?" he asked cautiously, throwing his wallet towards the biker but holding on to his Nokia. "I'm trying to find a friend of mine and without the phone – "

Puck glanced towards his girlfriend, who was glowering while Sandy stuffed money into an eco-friendly reusable nylon bag. "Sorry, guys," he said lowly as he scooped up Kurt and Brittany's things. "My lady will have my _nuts _for breakfast if she thinks I'm not bad-ass enough. I feel for you, I really do. But I had to get all Thunderdome with guys named Bonesaw and Gutcrusher just for the chance to date her, so I can't risk – "

He was interrupted by the biker woman's indignant, wrathful shout. "Whaddaya mean you're out of Mallomars? Puck!" she roared, "This bodega sucks! No Cadbury eggs, no Mallomars. Just stale gummy worms and fucking Hersheys as far as the eye can see." Kurt saw her turn to Puck, and saw Sandy fumble for something behind the register.

"Lauren, baby," Puck began, and then gasped. "LOOK OUT!"

She swung around just as Sandy brought up the baseball bat. Grabbing him by his shirt front, Lauren heaved him bodily over the counter and threw him, bat and all, crashing into the diary shelves. Eggs, milk and yoghurt rained down on Kurt and Brittany.

"Ohh, the poor baby chickens!" Brittany cried as Kurt pulled her to her feet and dodged around Puck.

Sandy struggled out of the shelving wreckage and took a martial arts fighter's stance. "You wanna dance with the Pink Dagger, straight boy?" Sandy snarled.

But Puck just shook his head and laughed. "Dude, you are so gonna wish I had shot you," he said, sticking his gun into his belt and folding his arms. Lauren rolled up her bomber jacket sleeves and shouldered past Kurt and Brittany, sneering and cracking her knuckles loudly. "__So__fucking hot!" Puck groaned as she advanced on the defiant cashier.

"Sandy!" Kurt cried, turning back but still holding Brittany's hands.

"It's all right. I'm a black belt in mongoose __jujitsu___,_" Sandy yelled, waving him away.

Kurt tugged Brittany towards the door.

"Wait!" With a dancer's grace, Brittany bent smoothly and scooped up the can of Fancy Feast. She flashed him a triumphant smile. "Mustn't disappoint Lord Tubbington."

Kurt gaped at her for an instant."Now that your cat is squared away, can we __please__run for our lives?" he snapped. Brittany nodded. "Good. Let's go!"

Sticky and dripping with goo, they stumbled outside together while all hell broke loose behind them.


	6. Who Shot JFK?

****Chapter 6: Who Shot JFK?****

For three blocks they ran, hand in hand. Brittany seemed to know where she was going and Kurt was content to follow where she led. He had no money, no phone, no juice. Nowhere to go and nowhere to turn. He was running on empty.

Brittany ducked down an alley and maneuvered behind a high stack of wooden crates. The alley was dark, someone had shot out the street lights, but Kurt could discern, obscured from the street by the crates, a black metal door, apparently the back entrance to a building. Iron fire escapes clung to the side like rusty scaffolding.

"Is this some underground club?"

"Ssshhh!" Brittany pressed a finger to her lips to indicate he shouldn't make a sound. Then she picked a tire iron off the ground and struck the door rhythmically:

__clang, clang__ (pause) __clang __(pause) __clang __(pause) __clang, clang__

Kurt, straining his ears for the telltale _t___hump thump thump__ of the techno music he expected to hear, was startled when a viewing slit opened midway up the door and black, sparkling eyes peered out. The only sound came when a low, melodic woman's voice whispered, "What's the password?"

Brittany cocked her head to one side and thought for a moment. Then she shrugged. "I don't know why you always ask me that. You know I'm not good with puzzles."

The dark eyes slid sideways to examine Kurt. "Who's he?"

"My new friend. We got robbed together. But I got the Fancy Feast." Brittany held up the cat food and beamed like she had achieved her mission in life.

"Can I – " Kurt began softly. Both women silenced him with a harsh, "Ssshhh!"

"God!" hissed the voice behind the door. "Bring the feds right to us, why don't you?"

The black door opened just far enough and Brittany pulled Kurt inside with her. Kurt had an instant to register that he was in a dark stairwell before a bright light shone in his eyes.

The woman inside kept the flashlight trained on Kurt's face as she went to put her arm around Brittany and stopped. "What the hell happened?" she asked harshly. "You go to get something for your humongous cat and come back with a strange guy, looking like a pair of underdone omelets." Without waiting for an answer she rounded on Kurt. "And you! You just happened to be in the same place at the same time, huh? I don't buy it. There's no such thing as coincidence. Who sent you? Who do you work for?"

"Santana, don't you recognize him?" Brittany said before Kurt could answer. "This is Vaughn Kittridge from Harbor Bay. But he's using another name tonight. He's incontinent."

Kurt, still shielding his eyes from the blinding beam, began to feel an Academy Award-winning headache coming on. "I think you mean 'incognito'," he said drily. "But like I started to explain before, Brittany, my name is Kurt Hummel. __Secret Passions, Secret Shames__is just a TV show and I'm an actor on the show. Vaughn isn't a real person and neither is August."

"You and August had a fight over Troy, didn't you?" Her tone was accusatory. "That's why you're saying such mean things about him. Oh my God!" Brittany gasped with apparent understanding. "You're meeting Troy at Club Wilde, aren't you, for a secret lovers' tryst."

Kurt was debating how to respond when Brittany turned towards the woman holding the flashlight and hung her head. Her voice was very small. "Santana, I'm so sorry. The chicken killer took my phone and I know you told me to be extra careful with it. He took Vaughn's phone – I mean "_Kurt's_" phone, too. But I wasn't scared because Kurt told me we'd be okay." She gave a quick and only slightly confusing account of what had happened. "Can we go upstairs? I want to show Lord Tubbington that I'm alright, and this goo is starting to itch."

Santana hesitated for a few seconds before lowering the flashlight. Like Brittany, she appeared to be in her mid-20s. She was dressed in army camouflage fatigues that complemented her lithe figure surprisingly well. Kurt didn't really have time to register her other features before she stepped far into his personal space and fixed him with a hard look. "Okay, Dairy Queen, here's how it's gonna go. I'm gonna trust you, __for____now__, because you brought Brit home safe. But you have to swear that you'll forget you ever met us and that you won't tell a soul about this place. You squeal to __anyone ___– _and I mean __anyone___ –_ fictional or otherwise, and I will hunt you down and remove any body part that might conceivably interfere with that girly voice. Understand?"

Kurt assured her he did, and Brittany took his hand again as they started up the stairs, Santana and the flashlight leading the way.

"You know why that store got robbed, right?" she called confidently over her shoulder.

"Fashion karma's a bitch?"

"A bad candy selection?"

Santana's ponytail swung side to side as she shook her head. "It's all part of their master plan to take over the country. Incite lawlessness, increase security, privatize the cops, impose a curfew and then __BAM___!_ Bye-bye civil liberties. Next thing you know, we'll all be medicated and micro-chipped – for our own protection, of course."

"Uh, who are 'they'?" Kurt asked cautiously.

Santana stared back at him, impatient. "They. Them." Kurt's face was a blank. "You __know___._" She signed heavily and rolled her eyes. "The government-military-industrial complex. God, you look so much smarter than you are. From now on Auntie Tana will use her small words, okay?"

Kurt wasn't sure if he should laugh, make a snarky reply or simply run for the nearest exit. But apparently they'd reached the women's apartment, because Santana and Brittany both flattened themselves against the wall, away from the peep hole. Santana gestured at Kurt to do likewise. She craned her neck and checked the small piece of string balanced on the door handle, making sure no one had touched it since she left. Satisfied, she moved in front of the door and swiftly unlocked the four deadbolts. Just inside the threshold, Santana drew a revolver from a hip holster Kurt hadn't noticed before. She knelt down and with her free hand carefully removed a hidden trip wire and then crept noiselessly inside, gun at the ready. Brittany stopped at the door and therefore Kurt stopped, too. They waited a few more seconds. "All clear," Santana called to the others.

"Auntie Tana is taking paranoia to a whole new level," Kurt muttered.

Santana turned to him, re-holstering the revolver. In proper light, Kurt could see that her glossy black hair matched her eyes. "Hey, it's not paranoia if they really are out to get you."

"Hi, sweetheart!" Brittany cooed, scooping a large, overweight gray and black tabby into her arms and cuddling vigorously. The cat was clearly used to being manhandled this way and therefore submitted graciously. "Did you miss Mama? Were you worried? Mama got your Fancy Feast and she met a really nice man with two names. Vau – I mean _Kurt_, may I introduce you to Lord Tubbington? Lord Tubbington, this is Kurt."

She eagerly extended the cat's paw and Kurt, after looking for but failing to detect even a trace of mockery on her face, gingerly shook it.

"Pleased to meet you, Lord Tubbington." he said solemnly.

Santana seemed to decide that Kurt wasn't one of 'Them'. "So do you want herbal tea or some lame shit like that? Or red wine? I have some weed, too, if you'd rather light up." Kurt indicated that tea would be lovely, and she headed off to the small kitchen.

"I'm going to take a shower and change," Brittany announced, gently returning the cat to what apparently was his armchair of choice. It was covered with a red cloth trimmed with gold fringe. "You two get to know each other and then Kurt can shower after me."

"I really appreciate you helping me out like this."

"Of course." Brittany smiled sweetly. "What are friends for?" She headed towards a side room.

A shower sounded like Heaven. Every bit of exposed skin was screaming in protest against the dried milk and eggs, and his clothes were ruined.

_His clothes were ruined._

_"___What kind of friend are you?"__

Kurt began to shake involuntarily. Lord Tubbington let out a loud meow and Brittany turned back to the living room. She scowled in worry and instantly moved beside Kurt, putting her arm around him.

"Kurt, what's wrong?"

"It's just like the dream," he whispered shakily. "My suit was … just before I looked ... at the body." Those final few words sounded like they'd been dragged unwillingly from his throat.

"I don't understand."

Santana returned, took one look at his face and silently placed the tea mug in his hands. Kurt gripped it tightly, trying to absorb the heat, trying to push away the sense memory of cold corridors and cruel whispers. The dream, the dream was reaching for him, poking at him, scolding him. He leaned a bit against Brittany, trying to catch his breath.

"A few hours ago I had a dream. A nightmare. My … my friend Dave had... someone had killed him and I fell... fell in the blood and ruined my suit. And my feet were ... bare and they were covered in blood and the flowers withered and the voices whispered that it was all my fault."

"You had a promotion?"

"A premonition, yeah," Kurt nodded, now staring into his tea mug. "I think so. So I came down here, because Dave used to live in this neighborhood, to warn him." Tears sat poised on the edge of his lids, waiting for their cue. "But he's moved and now I'll never find him in time. He's g-going to die and I …" the tears made their grand entrance "... I c-can't stop it. I can't save him. I know how crazy this all sounds." Kurt wiped roughly at his eyes with the tiny patch of clean on his sleeve.

Lord Tubbington let out a sharp, low growl. Brittany seized Kurt's hand and pressed it between hers. "Don't worry," she soothed. "We'll get you cleaned up, and then Lord Tubbington and I will help you find your friend."

"Um, that's really sweet of you but I don't see how – "

The cat meowed again. Brittany looked at the tabby for a moment, nodded and then turned back to Kurt, smiling. "We insist."


	7. Lord Tubbington Holds Court

****Chapter 7: Lord Tubbington Holds Court****

Kurt examined himself in the bathroom mirror. He'd done his best to replicate his normal ablutions using Brittany and Santana's drug store equivalents of his high-end skin and hair care products. Apparently neither woman used hair spray ("That little ball that clanks around in the can? It's a microphone," Santana called through the door when he asked), so his bangs kept falling over his eyes and he kept pushing them away. It was really annoying, but otherwise he felt almost presentable from the neck up.

Now that his body was clean, the stink of milk, eggs and cottage cheese coming off his clothing was even stronger. Kurt was about to force himself back into the stiff and sticky pieces when Santana tapped on the door.

"Here," she snapped, opening the door slightly and throwing in a pile of clothing. "That's every clean thing from the laundry room downstairs. Something's bound to fit you."

"You __stole__ other people's clothes?"

"Well... __duh!__ You don't expect me to give you my stuff? What's the big deal? You're just picking a shirt and pants, right? I'll put everything else back. Eventually."

So much for the perfect 'Kurt to the rescue' outfit, he thought, gingerly holding a pair of baggy blue jeans to his waist. He picked out a black t-shirt that fit snugly across his chest and hugged his abdomen and toned upper arms. The only red in the pile (and Kurt was irrationally determined to wear red) was a large flannel lumberjack number that hung loosely on his slender shoulders. He decided the shirt looked slightly less stupid hanging open and untucked than the other way. Surveying his reflection, fashionista Kurt Hummel was nowhere to be seen. Would Dave even recognize him, looking so... so … __pedestrian___?_

"Took you long enough," Santana snapped when he emerged from the bathroom. She was trying to sound impatient, but there was a vulnerability on her face that belied her tone.

"Thank you for getting me the clothes, Santana," he said, beaming genuine gratitude into her eyes.

Santana sharply turned her head away and shrugged. "Whatever. I'm just trying to get you out of our lives as fast as possible." But he could see in profile that she was grinning slightly.

"Now come sit across from us," Brittany called from the living room, "and we'll find your friend." She knelt on the floor by a low coffee table, with Lord Tubbington on her lap. Something akin to a board game lay set up on the table in front of her. In the left corner was the word YES, in the right corner the word NO, at the bottom it said "Goodbye," and in the middle of the board were all the letters of the alphabet and numbers 0-9. The strange board made Kurt uneasy.

"Are we going to play a game?" he asked cautiously.

"Ouija is not a game, Kurt," Brittany admonished gently. "It's a way to communicate with the spirit world. The spirits know everything about everyone and they can tell us about your friend."

"I didn't realize you were psychic?"

"Oh no! I'm a kindergarten teacher," Brittany laughed modestly and Kurt began to feel a little foolish for his outlandish thoughts. "Lord Tubbington is the psychic."

Kurt coughed roughly to cover his surprised gasp. "What was I thinking?" he muttered. "So," he continued cautiously, clearing his throat, "you two communicate telepathically?"

"No, silly." Brittany looked at him like he'd just made the most ridiculous suggestion she'd ever heard. "He only speaks cat. That's why we use the Ouija board."

Kurt nodded numbly. Cat séance. Sure, why not? It made as much sense as everything else that had happened tonight.

"We'll put our fingertips on the pointer, and I'll hold Lord Tubbington's paw, and the spirit energy will flow through the pointer and make words. Now it's very important that you don't push the pointer. It has to move by itself or it doesn't count."

"Okay," said Kurt, positioning his hands uncertainly. "Now what do I do?"

"Ask questions, but simple ones. Lord Tubbington is very smart, but the spirits can be really dense sometimes."

Kurt swallowed hard. He was surprised to find his pulse racing. You're just humoring her, he told himself. No reason to be nervous, it's not like any of this means anything.

"Is my friend really in danger?" he asked loudly. He stared at the pointer. Brittany stared at the pointer. The obese feline blinked slowly several times, yawned, and idly licked its tail. Nothing happened. There followed a few long minutes of silence. Kurt was about to suggest that maybe the spirits had nothing to say, when Lord Tubbington began to purr and the indicator started to move slowly back and forth along the board.

Well, I'm pushing it unconsciously, I must be, Kurt thought. He lightened his touch so that his fingertips were barely connected to the pointer. It started moving with more conviction. Or she's pushing it, right?

"We've made contact!" Brittany beamed excitedly. "Ask again."

Kurt deliberately kept his voice level, but still it had a bit more quaver than he would have preferred. "Is Dave really in danger?"

The pointer crept up to the top left corner.

**YES**

"That's a 'yes'," Brittany supplied eagerly. "Ask something else."

"Um... what is he in danger from?"

The cat continued to purr loudly as the disk slid around the board, stopping very deliberately on each letter in turn.

**K-N-I-F-E**

"'Knife'. Does that match your dream?" When Kurt nodded slowly, Brittany seemed delighted. "This is so awesome!"

"Uh, yeah... awesome," Kurt echoed hollowly, trying not to panic. "When will he be attacked? What time?"

**S-O-O-N**

"But when exactly? Can't you tell me when?" Kurt couldn't help sounding high-pitched and frantic. Lord Tubbington's purring stopped abruptly. "What?" He looked pleadingly at Brittany. "What's wrong?"

"You have to stay calm, Kurt. Lord Tubbington is very sensitive, and your strong emotions are blocking out the spirits." She lifted her hand from the pointer and shook it a bit. "Take your hand off, close your eyes and breath. Just try to clear your mind." He obeyed. "Now count to ten and shake out your hands." He did. "Do you feel more in control?" He nodded. "Okay, then put your hand back and we'll continue."

The instant Kurt's fingertips reconnected with the pointer Brittany was already touching, the cat began purring again. Which did __not__ creep Kurt out even one little bit. No, not in the slightest.

"Um, okay." He gulped another deep breath. "Can you tell me exactly when Dave will be attacked?"

**S-O-O-N**

Kurt frowned. "No, that's good," Brittany assured him. "If the spirits can't give us an exact time, it means his fate isn't fixed. You can still change it."

"Wh-where is he? Where can I find him?" Kurt tried hard to keep the desperation out of his voice, and was relieved when the cat kept purring.

The pointer was still for many minutes. Just when Kurt was about to drop his hand and give up, it began to creep forward at an agonizingly slow pace.

**B-A-R**

"A bar? But there are thousands of bars in New York. Can you be more specific?"

**F-I-S-H**

"Oh, sweetie," Brittany chided the cat playfully, "I know you're hungry, but you have to be patient. Mama will give you din-din as soon as we finish helping Kurt."

"I think he means Finn's Sports and Karaoke Bar in Alphabet City," Santana said, coming over from the table where she had been rifling through her neighbors' pants and shirt pockets for notes and change. "It's a total dump, but we go there sometimes for GLBT karaoke-bingo night. The owner's midget girlfriend is like a total singing freak and they have the best song selection in the Lower East Side."

"Finn! That's the name of Dave's roommate. At least, he used to be Dave's roommate."

"It must be the same guy," Santana replied. "How many mothers are heartless enough to name their kids 'Finn'? This one is like freakishly tall."

"I only met him once, but I think that's right."

"Let's make sure." Brittany sounded so sensible, it took Kurt by surprise. "Oh Spirits Who Are Communicating Through Lord Tubbington, do you mean Finn's Sports and Karaoke Bar in Alphabet City?"

**YES**

Lord Tubbington yawned and became silent. Brittany seemed about to take her hand off the pointer when Kurt blurted out, "Wait!" The cat and the ladies looked expectantly at him. Kurt hesitated, embarrassed. "C-can I ask just one more question?" he asked shyly.

"Sure. That's okay, isn't it, darling?" the blonde cooed, petting the cat indulgently. "One more question and then Mama will feed you something extra-nice because you've been such a good psychic kitty." Kurt could have sworn the tabby nodded. His purring renewed.

Kurt drew in a deep breath. Should he ask? It was stupid to ask. He wasn't even sure he believed anything else the cat had told him. And boy, wasn't that a sentence he never thought he'd say in this lifetime! But still... he'd gone this far into the night...

"Does Dave... __h-hate__ me?"

Now Kurt held his breath. His heart was thumping loudly. Lord Tubbington purred steadily for some minutes but the pointer stayed still. Finally, it traveled to the upper right corner.

**NO**

"Super!" Santana announced so sharply even the tabby was startled. "Dave doesn't hate you. Now you can go rescue him and live happily ever after and we'll all forget any of this ever happened. Sorry to be a bitch – well, no, I'm __not__ sorry about it. That's kind of my thing. Anyway, you've already been here 42 minutes, which is 45 minutes longer than I wanted you here. So lace up those Bottega Veneta boots and hit the bricks, Mr. TV Actor."

Kurt knelt by the door to put on his shoes. Suddenly, something was thrust in his face.

"Here!" Santana snapped roughly. She held out a slip of paper and a 5-dollar bill. "The address for Finn's Sports Bar and enough money to get you home on the subway. Don't start crying like an eight-year-old," she scolded when Kurt's eyes began to mist. "I'm just making sure you don't come back here."

Without hesitating, Kurt rose and pulled her into a tight hug. Santana endured it for a few seconds before pushing away.

"Kurt," Brittany said shyly, "I can't give you my phone number because my phone was stolen. Oh, that's right, you knew that. Anyway, Santana wouldn't let me give you my phone number even if I had a phone, but if everything turns out okay, would you leave a note for me at the CD register in the Virgin Mega Store? Just say it's for Brittany S. and they'll know who to give it to. Me. Because I'm Brittany S." Kurt promised he would, and she hugged him fiercely. "And be nice to August," she whispered in his ear. "He really loves you."

And then Kurt was once again amidst the living night, feeling a strange mix of hope and urgency as he walked quickly east towards Avenue A. It was 2:49 AM.


	8. The Ghost of Christmas Past

****Chapter 8: The Ghost of Christmas Past****

Kurt's designer boots hit the pavement at quick, heavy intervals. It's a good thing his feet knew their job, because Kurt was completely lost inside his head, swathed in thoughts of Dave. Dave didn't hate him. That was a good start, but it didn't mean Dave would be pleased to see him, even if Kurt was trying to save his life. People can change a lot in six years. Kurt hadn't, not much, but he'd always had such a strong sense of self. But Dave then and Dave now might be radically different people. You're just delivering the mail, Kurt told himself sternly. This isn't about reconnecting or trying for a second chance. Six years is enough time to learn from your mistakes and move on. Isn't it?

They made so many mistakes back then. Kurt scowled as he strode quickly towards Alphabet City. Yes, __they.__No way was he taking all the blame for how things ended between them.

* * *

><p><em>"<em>__You do realize the meal costs the same whether you eat it or inhale it?" Kurt smiled down at the handsome, dark-haired guy who'd practically attacked the burger Kurt had just delivered to his table.__

_"___Don't care much about your tips, huh?" The young man grinned up at him good-naturedly.__

__Kurt laughed, loud enough for the diner manager to give him a dirty look. Kurt didn't care. This guy was ____hot____. Strong jaw, broad shoulders, solid muscle under that polo shirt. Kurt had never seen such refined eyebrows on a man.__

_"___I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I keep forgetting the customer's always right."__

_"___That's okay," the man shrugged. "I'm a student. I was barely gonna tip you, anyway."__

__Kurt pretended to look devastated. His hands flew to his heart melodramatically. "Oh woe is me! Now little Timmy will never get his kidney transplant!"__

__This time the young man laughed, showing off a pleasant, husky baritone. "Let me guess – drama major?"__

_"___Now I ____am ____offended. Don't you recognize a struggling *artiste* when you see one?"__

__Now the manager was scowling at both of them. He cleared his throat loudly and swept the room with his eyes to indicate all the other customers. Kurt nodded obediently to the manager and turned back to the young man at the table one last time. He decided to be forward. "Listen, I've got to wait on other tables, but after you vacuum up that burger, order something else so I can come back, okay? I don't meet many people who can make me laugh."__

__The man seemed a little embarrassed, but his hazel eyes sparkled. "How about apple sauce? And my name is Dave, by the way." He offered his hand.__

_And that's how it started._

* * *

><p><em>"<em>__To what do I owe the pleasure? I thought we were meeting at the coffee shop tonight."__

__"I finished my paper early and now I want a break from all this concrete. Let's go to the zoo."__

__"That's an intriguing choice for our first official date."__

__"No...uh... it's not...it's not a ____date____. I'm not gay. I just... like hanging out with you. But it's ____not____a date."__

__"That's too bad. You're adorable when you're flustered. No, Dave...don't go! I'm sorry. I just feel so comfortable with you, I guess I just presumed. I'd love to go, as ____friends____, to the zoo with you. Just give me 5 minutes to change into something from last season.____Cutting edge fashion and nature don't mix."__

* * *

><p><em>"<em>__This play makes no sense. The dialogue is just gibberish."__

_"___'Waiting for Godot' is a brilliant and groundbreaking absurdist tragicomedy about the futility of human existence. Now either you run lines with me, or we go scarf shopping."__

__"Okay, okay! Jeez, you theater people are touchy!____So when does this guy Godot show up?"__

_"___I'm rehearsing with a philistine."__

* * *

><p>Kurt smiled unconsciously as he crossed Avenue A. Those first few months were so comfortable, so easy, so uncomplicated. But then it began to change.<p>

_"___Kurt, what are you doing?"__

_"___I'm taking your picture to send my Dad. I told him I had a straight male friend and I just want to prove you're not imaginary."__

__Dave looked up from his desk and sort of half-frowned. "Why do you always do that?" he asked tensely, putting his Business Statistics text book aside.__

_"___Do what?" Kurt tucked his phone into the back pocket of his impossibly tight jeans and sprawled out on the cheap futon sofa/bed in Dave's studio apartment, intending to memorize his latest part (Alan Strang in 'Equus'), while Dave studied.__

_"___Reduce me to a sexual orientation." Dave started moving around the room, shifting things haphazardly from one place to another, a sure sign that he was agitated. "I mean," he continued, his voice hardening as he rounded on Kurt, "I would never call you 'my gay friend', or worse, 'my token gay friend'."__

_"___I don't understand why you're getting so upset," Kurt snapped defensively. "I wasn't trying to put you down."__

_"___Who a person sleeps with – or … wants to sleep with – who a person … loves – is not the sum total of that person." Kurt's eyes just widened as he watched Dave's anger grow. "And by the way, every time you make some 'gays are all like this, straights are all like that' crack, it just makes you sound like a judgmental bitch!"__

__An eyebrow shot up. "Well pardon me for noticing that in 44 states you have more civil liberties than I do. And if you think I'm such a bitch, then why do you hang out with me?"__

_"___That's not ...god, Kurt, you're so …!" He drew in a calming breath and held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "All I'm saying is you complain about being stereotyped, but you just turn around and do the same thing to others."__

__Kurt was taken aback. His inner diva quieted. "I never thought of it that way. But you have to understand, I grew up in this intolerant little town and came out when I was 16. But even before that people knew, and they always defined me by my sexuality. I was the town's resident fairy."__

__"Don't say that."__

__"Oh, I've been called much worse. You know I was voted Prom Queen my junior year? I don't think I've ever been more humiliated. What I'm trying to say is that for so long so many people never looked beyond the label they put on me, I guess I got used to labeling them back in self-defense. But you're right, I wasn't being fair to you and I apologize." He paused. Dave looked troubled as he absorbed what Kurt was saying. "Still friends?" Kurt asked timidly.__

__"Yeah, still friends." Dave sounded a little … sad? He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "And I'm sorry I got so worked up. It's just... never mind." Whatever the mood was, he tried to shake it off. "How'd that audition go for the commercial?"__

__"No love for me in hand soap land. But don't change the subject. What were you going to say?"__

__There was an awkward silence, and then a not-very-convincing "Nothing" was mumbled. Were they really okay?__

__Kurt felt dissatisfied. Something was obviously going unsaid. "Dave, you know you can talk to me about anything. If something's bothering you – "__

__Dave waived the idea away brusquely. "Nah, just stressed about midterms and shit." His voice was back to normal, rich and confident. "Let's get out of here. You wanna grab pizza?"__

__"And ruin this complexion? But I'll join you if we go someplace where I can get a salad."__

__"Deal."__

* * *

><p><em><em>Even after changing out of his costume and removing the stage make up, Kurt was in a triumphant haze. He was still flying high, running on post-opening night adrenaline and copious audience applause, when the<em>___knock came on his dressing room door. "Dave! What are you doing here? Did you see the show?"__

__Dave seemed almost as excited as Kurt. "You sang great! Everyone else sounded like crap compared to you." Dave brought his arm around from behind his back, revealing a very tasteful bouquet of deep purple and pale lavender iris with a single white magnolia in the middle. Dave blushed and his eyes dropped to the floor bashfully as he stammered out, "The show's called 'House of Flowers' so I figured ..." His voice, already quiet and hesitant, dried up altogether when he lifted his eyes to look into Kurt's.__

__Thinking back afterward, Kurt realized he should have noticed a lot sooner. The signs were there, the awkwardness, the self-conscious tension, shying away from Kurt's slightest touch. Maybe if he'd paid closer attention, but Kurt was so caught up in auditions and rehearsals. And Dave kept saying it was just the C.P.A. exam "messing with my head." But the exam was over a week ago, and there was still something off about him. About them, together.__

__If Kurt didn't notice anything before, he was too elated about the performance to pick up on anything now. He sprang from the makeup chair, clapping his hands in delight. "Oh my god, Dave, this is so sweet!"__

__As his right hand closed over Dave's (meaning to take the bouquet), Kurt brought his left arm around Dave's shoulder. He only intended to give him a friendly, platonic half-hug. But standing so close, Kurt couldn't help inhaling Dave's scent, the musk of him, that heady mix of cologne and masculinity. The smell, the touch, the proximity to this handsome, hard-bodied, husky-voiced, sexy-shy man – it sparked an attraction in Kurt that he had put aside months ago. Without thinking, the actor leaned a bit closer than was prudent, tipped his head up slightly and kissed Dave softly on the cheek.__

__And suddenly the bouquet was on the floor and Dave was holding Kurt's face in his hands. His eyes burned with such intense sadness, such longing, that Kurt simply froze. He wasn't frightened, just puzzled. But Dave, Dave seemed to be fighting his own private war. Suddenly he pulled Kurt's lips to his, pressing hard and desperate. Kurt had never felt that kind of passion, that kind of ____need ____behind a kiss. Like Dave's very existence depended on keeping his lips melded to Kurt's. The countertenor began to kiss back, teasing the taller man's mouth open so his tongue could get lost in that deliciously warm wetness. Dave's arms wrapped around Kurt's slender waist, while Kurt's hands snaked over Dave's broad shoulders and nestled happily in his hair. The kisses cascaded seamlessly, one into another into another, becoming more tender but losing none of the earlier heat.__

__"Kurt, are you ready to – " Fellow singer Sunshine stopped short in the doorway. "Oh! Pardon me."__

__Dave tried to pull away the instant he heard her voice, but Kurt still had his hands on Dave's shoulders, keeping them connected.__

__"I'm... I'm... I shouldn't have done that." Dave's voice was hoarse and trembling. He seemed terrified and dropped his head. In shame? In defeat?__

__"I wasn't exactly complaining," Kurt said gently. His soft hands brushed Dave's cheek, trying to coax his chin up. "Dave? Dave, look at me."__

__Instead Dave pushed Kurt's arms away and almost knocked Sunshine to the floor when he rushed past her.__

__"No! Please don't leave. We should talk about this!" Dave kept walking, fast and away, never breaking stride, never looking back.__

* * *

><p><em><em>The next morning Kurt was on his doorstep. Neither man appeared to have gotten much sleep the night before.<em>_

__"Please Dave, just talk to me."__

__The newly minted accountant just shook his head sadly. Then he started to cry, quietly, against his will, getting angry with himself for crying. Kurt moved to hug him, but Dave retreated.__

__"Please, Kurt, don't touch me. I'm... I'm all fucked up right now." He looked so broken. "I can't … I don't know what to do." He slumped down on his unmade bed, head in his hands, trying to regain self-control. "All I know is you're one of my best friends, but somewhere along the way I …I... ____FUCK____!'" His head snapped up and he threw a pillow roughly against the wall. "I hate this touchy feely shit!" He started pacing the small studio like a caged animal, clenching and unclenching his fists. "It's not friendship anymore, okay?" he spat out angrily. "I don't know what the fuck it is, but it's not friendship!"__

__"Dave," in contrast, Kurt's voice was very calm, "are you attracted to me?" Dave nodded disconsolately and turned away. "Is it just me, or do you have these feelings for other men, too?" Dave let out a fresh sob, but only one. Now Kurt spoke slowly and carefully. "Have you considered that you might be gay? Or bi?"__

__"No!" he shouted, spinning around, a hunted look in his eye. "I can't... I won't... If I just ignore it, don't act on it, then it doesn't matter what I feel. I'll be straight in every way that matters."__

__Kurt was torn between remaining sympathetic and taking deep offense. He decided to stick with sympathy for a little longer. "Matters to whom? Whose expectations are so inflexible that you're willing to deny such a large part of your true self?"__

__"My family. My church. Don't look at me like that! I know you think Catholicism is just homophobia and misogyny. But it means more than that to me, and it means a hell of a lot more than that to my parents. You sent your father a picture of me? You can't imagine the crap my parents will dump on me if I tell them how close we are, how much time we spend together." He paused, apparently debating whether to continue. "How... how holding you made me feel whole and safe and like my life made sense again."__

__At that moment, for that moment, Kurt thought he knew what he wanted. He took a step forward.__

__"You have to go, Kurt," Dave said miserably.__

__"What if you make me feel safe and whole, too?" The actor took another step towards him.__

__"Please go," Dave choked out. "I... can't be around you. Not now, anyway."__

__"Because you want to touch me?" Kurt's tone was tender and caressing. He looked straight into Dave's eyes, unblinking, until Dave closed his eyes and nodded. "What if I want you to touch me?" Another step. "What if I want to hold you," another step, "just hold you, and show you that the world doesn't end because you're hugging another man?" Now Kurt was an arm's length away, and a stray tear or two silently rolled down Dave's cheeks as he fought within himself. The countertenor breathed, lighter than shaddow, "Let me stay."__

__Maybe it was the sweet gentleness in Kurt's voice. Maybe it was the look of understanding, of genuine affection on his face. Maybe it was the need to be ____with____ someone, to feel fully alive, instead of alone. Dave wiped his eyes. Kurt opened his arms and Dave closed the space between them.__

_And that's how it started._


	9. A Tide in the Affairs of Men

****Chapter 9: A Tide in the Affairs of Men****

The placard outside Finn's Sports and Karaoke Bar read "Tonight's Contest: Torch Song Challenge." When Kurt pulled open the door, the stench of tobacco, stale beer and cheap perfume hit him full on. He also heard the unmistakable strains of "The Man That Got Away" coming from inside.

His eyes swept the large front room, which appeared wholly dedicated to karaoke. There were about two dozen or so patrons, none of whom was Dave. He would have frowned and cursed Lord Tubbington to kitty hell, but the bartender definitely looked familiar. As he remembered it, Dave's college friend Finn was nice enough to look at but not the sharpest tool in the shed. Apparently not much had changed, because he now seemed to be having trouble navigating the hot and cold water faucets as he rinsed glasses. At the far end from the entrance, Kurt could see a slightly smaller room, clearly the sports bar portion of the establishment, fitted out with pool table, dart board, and several large flat screen TVs carrying football, basketball and ice hockey games.

As Kurt drew closer, the extent of the singer's vocal power and quality became fully evident.

**_**¶ The night is bitter, the stars have lost their glitter. ¶  
>¶ The winds grow colder, and suddenly you're older. ¶<strong>_**

Kurt was pretty familiar with the rank and file of the musical theater world, and he was sure he'd never seen the petite brunette on stage before. Maybe a new arrival with Broadway dreams?

__**¶ And all because of the man that got away. ¶**__

Her tone and technique were flawless, but there was no deep emotion behind her rendering. Either a wanna-be or a never-gonna-be, Kurt decided. Perhaps he would ofter some professional advice to the young woman after the business of saving Dave was all put to bed.

* * *

><p><em><em>When the time came, they ended up at Kurt's place, because his bed was bigger.<em>_

"__I'm sure," Dave said firmly as he reclined onto his back. "Just be gentle." He tried to grin playfully, but Kurt felt him tremble slightly as the singer carefully climbed on top of him.__

__He straddled Dave's hips and searched his brown-green eyes to see which way the balance was tipped between fear and desire. As the singer moved, Dave, his shirt already off, hairy, muscular chest exposed to Kurt's roving hands, gasped and heaved under him. Kurt bent forward and kissed Dave passionately on the lips.__

__"Don't be afraid," he murmured in Dave's ear, in between nipping and sucking on his neck. "I'll take care of you." Kurt tongued his way down Dave's torso while Dave groaned helplessly. "We'll only go as far as you're comfortable with," Kurt purred as he slipped off the bed and unbuttoned his own shirt slowly in the soft candlelight. "Just tell me to stop and I will."__

__Easier said than done, Kurt knew. He was completely turned on by this new role. Men had always pursued him. Being the seducer – dominating this big, powerful man beneath him – it was intoxicating!__

__Kurt, now naked, nudged Dave's legs open and settled on the mattress between his knees. "I want to make you feel good." He unzipped Dave's jeans and slowly pulled off the rest of his clothes. "I want to show you it's not disgusting. It's not a sin. Making love to someone you care about is beautiful."__

* * *

><p>Kurt shook himself out of his daydream (wet dream?) and moved to stand in front of the bar, leaning forward anxiously to catch the bartender's attention, as the diminutive mezzo soprano's voice swelled.<p>

**_**¶ And never a new love will be the same. ¶**_**

"Hey, dude, what can I get you?" the bartender asked with a slight, crooked grin.

'Dude'? Seriously? In New York City? Then Kurt remembered that he must look like a trucker or something in the borrowed clothes. He impatiently pushed his bangs to the side.

"Are you Finn?" The tall man nodded. "I'm looking for Dave Karofsky. It's extremely important that I find him and someone" (a psychic cat) "told me he might be here."

A light bulb went off in Finn's head, lighting up his face. "Hey, aren't you that actor guy? I met you at Dave's graduation party or something. Wow, that was like ages ago!"

**_**¶ With hope you burn up, tomorrow he may turn up. ¶  
>¶ There's just no let-up, the livelong night and day. ¶<strong>_**

"Is Dave here? Do you expect him any time soon?" Kurt was tired and he was worried and it was no comfort at all to know that this pleasant but dim cocktail jockey was his last, best hope. He tried to control the panic he could hear slipping into his voice. "Look, I promise I'm not some crazy psycho. Do you have Dave's phone number or his address? It's really urgent and every minute counts."

"Chill out, dude! Yeah, I've got his number, but my phone's in the office upstairs. My girlfriend goes ballistic if a cell phone rings while she's singing. Oh, that reminds me, you'll have to turn your phone off in here, 'cuz of the contest. Thanks." Finn started to move toward another customer.

Kurt cleared his throat deliberately. "A-hem! Dave?"

"Huh? Oh, right. He's helping me make the night deposit when the bar closes at 4, 'cuz my regular guy's out sick. He should be here in about 15 minutes."

Kurt exhaled and tried to think calmly. The night deposit. That must be why Dave gets attacked. So Kurt had 15 minutes to figure out how to stop Dave from going, or persuade him to take extra precautions, without sounding like a paranoid lunatic. And then they could exchange a few civilized words to paint over the memory of what their last words to each other had been, and Kurt could finally go home and end this bizarre night.

**_**¶ Ever since this world began, there is nothing sadder than ¶  
>¶ A one-man woman, looking for the man that got away. ¶<strong>_**

He slid into a bar stool and turned to view the stage, crossing his legs primly, hands on his knee, fingers laced together, expecting – based on the quality of the woman who had just finished singing – to find the next performance at least reasonably entertaining. A handsome young man in flashy black clothing with a broad face and dark curly hair made his way to the stage, As he passed the first singer, he winked at her and smirked. Her eyes snapped forward and she lifted her chin higher.

"Jesse," she said coldly without looking at him, "you're hold on second place is tenuous at best, so I suggest you focus on the singing."

She walked over to a far table where three red-faced, wobbly Japanese men were chain smoking and laughing amongst themselves. After a few sharp words from her that Kurt couldn't make out and some slurred Japanese replies he didn't understand, the brunette squealed in delight. First making sure Jesse was watching, she made a big show of rushing behind the bar and throwing her arms around Finn, who patted her shoulder and grin-grimaced awkwardly.

Jesse seemed to find the melodrama amusing. New music began, and he shot Rachel one more smug grin before filling the room with his smooth, polished tenor.

**_**¶ Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky, stormy weather.¶  
>¶ Since my gal and I ain't together, keeps raining all the time. ¶<strong>_**

* * *

><p><em><em>"Congratulations! I knew you'd pass!" Kurt gave Dave a strong hug the moment the accountant opened the door. Dave tensed but allowed the embrace. But as soon as he realized Kurt meant to kiss him, Dave pulled back. His eyes darted to the group of men and women gathered behind him, his gang from school and a few visitors from back home.<em>_

__Kurt frowned but nodded slightly.__

__He'd met a handful of the guests before, but they were mostly new faces. He could tell they picked up that he was gay (big surprise!), and they must have been wondering how Dave knew him. Dave introduced him as his "friend," and Kurt, the consummate actor, pretended to be okay with that. He smiled politely and chatted with everyone. The business majors talked about how they were going to make a ton of money on Wall Street. The political science majors wondered how many of the politicians they ended up working for would get caught in sex scandals. Kurt was genuinely curious to hear the beefy guys from Dave's home town reminisce about what a jock Dave used to be back in the day, and express amazement that he'd chosen such a mild-mannered profession. Kurt told them about his latest role, playing the gypsy nurse in 'Candide' off-off-Broadway. Dave hardly went near him the whole evening.__

__**¶ Night comes around and I'm still feeling bad. ¶**__

__"Did you have a good time?" Dave asked, slipping his arms around Kurt's waist from behind and drawing him close after all the other guests had gone.__

__"Yes. I particularly enjoyed watching that flake Holly flirt with you all night."__

__Dave laughed, but it sounded forced. He nuzzled into Kurt's neck. "Don't be jealous. She's just a friend who had a little too much to drink."__

__"Well, since apparently I'm just a friend, too, I guess I have no right to be jealous, do I?" Now his tone betrayed the hurt he was feeling. He escaped Dave's arms and began moving around the room, throwing away empty plates and glasses with single-minded devotion.__

__They cleaned in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly, Kurt wheeled around to face him. "Why won't you even hold my hand in public? This is New York, for god's sake. Nobody cares!"__

**_**¶ Rain's pouring down, blinding every hope I had. ¶**_**

__Dave sighed. Kurt knew that sigh, that was Dave's 'this conversation again' sigh. "I'm just not ready."__

__"So you're gay enough to sleep with me, but – " Kurt began, when Dave interrupted, the frustration evident in his voice, as well.__

__"It's hard, okay? You haven't been told your whole life that it's wrong. You don't have to worry that people from your church will see you."__

__"Well maybe if you stopped going to that church – "__

__"Kurt, I really care about you, but don't ask me to do that. You know what my faith means to me."__

__Kurt did know, intellectually, but he genuinely didn't understand. They'd had several conversations about it since "House of Flowers." Four conversations, to be exact. This was the big impasse between them – Dave believed so strongly in something Kurt thought was delusional at best, destructive at worst.__

__Dave threw some empty cups roughly into the trash. "Look, it's easy for you. You... everything about you reads gay." It wasn't meant as a compliment. Kurt's eyebrow shot to his hairline. "But I'm not like that. I don't care about fashion, the only Broadway I know comes from talking to you, and I'm not..." He stopped abruptly and bit his lip.__

__"You're not what?" Kurt asked in a cold, clipped tone, his eyes narrowing. "Go on, say it."__

__"Effeminate!" Dave threw the word in his face. "And I don't want to be."__

**_**¶ Can't go on, everything I had is gone, stormy weather. ¶**_**

__Kurt wasn't surprised Dave said that. But still it hurt. "Well, here's another absolutist statement from the judgmental bitch – gays come in all shapes, sizes and colors, David, just like straights."__

__"Please, Kurt, I ... I don't want to fight, not tonight. We'll fight about it tomorrow, okay?"__

__It always broke Kurt's heart to see Dave unhappy and troubled. He wanted to be supportive, he did. He knew coming out was difficult, even for someone as... obvious... as Kurt was. For Dave, with the pressure from his church and his family... And Kurt lo–... that is, Dave was very important to him.__

__He sighed loudly and cocked his head to one side, a slight, very slight smile on his face. "Okay, we'll fight tomorrow. You're lucky I have a kind and forgiving nature." Dave looked up and the gratitude in his eyes was unmistakable. "But Dave," Kurt added sternly, "I mean it. I won't wait forever."__

**_**¶ Since my love and I ain't together, keeps raining all the time. ¶**_**_**_**  
>¶ Keeps raining all the time. ¶<strong>_**_

__Their love-making that night was slow and passionate, as if each man were trying to memorize the experience, afraid that when it was over they would never be together again.__

* * *

><p>Finn's voice broke Kurt out of his latest reverie. "You want a drink? You look like you could use one."<p>

Kurt turned around in his stool to say that he only had five dollars and the way his luck was going, he'd better hold on to it, when the short, dark-haired woman accosted him. "Are you here for the contest? I'm Rachel Berry, the organizer." She eyed Kurt up and down and was clearly not encouraged by what she saw, adding pointedly, "We've already had several elimination rounds, starting with the first, where half the singers were disqualified because they didn't know what a torch song was. So before I can let you sign up, you have to give me an accurate definition."

Now she was tugging Kurt by the arm towards the tables in front of the stage. Kurt looked back over his shoulder at Finn and mouthed "Save me," but Finn just shrugged uselessly and the brunette continued speaking, with barely a pause to draw breath. Kurt couldn't help admiring her lung capacity.

"And in case you were wondering about the judges, we have an unbiased panel of Japanese businessmen in town for a convention about plastic food or something. They don't really speak English, but they know their karaoke and I have to say that even though they have quite rightly consistently given me the highest marks, they've been pretty accurate in weeding out everyone I considered a weak contestant without me having to step in very much. So now there are 8 contestants left, but really the only performers who have even close to my ability are Jesse," she motioned to the dark-haired man who had just finished singing, " and Quinn," she indicated a pretty blonde waitress with pale, unhappy green eyes who was moving towards the microphone.

"Isn't it a conflict of interest for you to be organizer, competitor __and__ shadow judge?"

"That's a very intelligent question, Mr...?"

The music started and Quinn's thin but pleasant soprano floated over the near-empty room.

**_**¶ Now you say you're sorry, for being so untrue. ¶**_**

"Kurt Hummel. I'm – "

But the tiny chatterbox was off again. "You see, I was raised by two gay dads, who knew instinctively that I was destined to be a star. They took me to dance, voice and acting lessons from the time I could stand on my adorably chubby little legs."

**_**¶ Well you can cry me a river, cry me a river, I cried a river over you. ¶**_**

"So even though my participation tonight sets the bar outrageously high, I'm hoping my fellow contestants will be inspired to vie for second place, rather than giving up at the outset. As for the judging, with all the aforementioned training I've had, there is no one in this establishment more qualified than I to evaluate the musical talents of others."

Kurt had never met anyone so arrogant who wasn't a politician. Oh how he wanted to bitch-slap that supercilious look off this Rachel person's face! Kurt Hummel, regardless of what he was wearing, was second to no one when it came to singing the classics. Still, he was about to put pride aside and explain that he was a professional entertainer who had performed in nightclub revues and off-Broadway shows, and therefore it wouldn't be fair for him to participate, when the bossy woman interrupted again.

"You realize, of course, that you're not allowed to sing something that another contestant has already selected. We started at midnight and, as you can imagine, we've gone through quite a few songs by now, so you might have trouble finding something in your range. Most torch songs were written for women, you know."

That did it! Kurt tilted his chin up slightly, swept his bangs off his forehead (again) and gave her an unnerving Cheshire cat smile for a few seconds. Then he drew in a deep breath, and threw the gauntlet right back at her.

"A 'torch song', Ms. Berry," he said haughtily, "is a sentimental or melancholy ballad, usually – but not always – lamenting an unrequited or lost or squandered love, often – but not __always – __sung by a woman. To properly render a torch song, the singer must not only be technically proficient, but also tap into the raw emotions, the pathos of the story being told. The singer must convey that the flame of love burns brightly, even as it consumes the one who loves."

**_**¶ You drove me, nearly drove me out of my head, while you never shed a tear. ¶**_**

Kurt indicated the waitress on stage, and said quietly, half to himself, "Like that."

Quinn was staring hard at the bartender, green eyes flashing with anger and pain. She didn't have an outstanding voice. It was pretty and clear-toned, but had very little power behind it. 'Cry Me a River' was a good choice vocally for her, since it didn't build to a big, belting finish that Kurt doubted she'd be able to deliver. But even catching only snippets over Rachel's nagging chatter, Kurt could tell Quinn hadn't picked that song merely for strategic reasons. The melancholy, the defeat and defiance and barely contained tears she infused into each note, the way she stared at Finn, willing him to watch her. To __hear__ her. To want her and regret losing her through whatever stupidity he'd committed. She was singing a challenge, or perhaps a goodbye.

* * *

><p>"<em><em>I can't do this anymore. You don't want to come out to your family, fine. But at least tell your friends."<em>_

"__You know it's not that simple for me." Normally, Kurt hated seeing that haunted, pained look in Dave's eyes, but this time he didn't care. Dave deserved it. It had been two months since the party, four months since they'd started going out, more than a year since they'd first met. But of course they weren't really going ____out____, since Dave insisted on staying in, in, in.__

"__No, Dave. It is exactly that simple. Either you be with me, ____openly____, or this is goodbye. I am nobody's dirty little secret. I deserve more, and frankly, I expect more from you."__

__Dave said nothing. He bit his lip and stared at the floor. His eyes started to glisten, but no tears fell. Not then.__

**_**¶ And now you say you love me. Well, just to prove you do, ¶**_**

"__Do you love me?" Kurt asked quietly. It wasn't the first time he'd asked a boyfriend that question, but usually he was being coy. Or romantic. Or manipulative. Usually, he already knew the answer. But now...__

"__I do. I do love you." Dave said sincerely, his tortured eyes looking into Kurt's. Now the tears started to fall. "But..." he flailed his arm uselessly. "But.."__

__And Kurt knew it was over. When he finished the sentence himself, the bitterness was a sharp, tart, tangible thing he could taste. "But just not enough."__

__Before he left for the last time, Kurt gave his anger free reign. He knew exactly how to hurt Dave, precisely the right words to shatter his self-esteem and make it crystal clear exactly what kind of gutless wonder, which brand of coward, how much of a failure as a friend, lover and human being Kurt thought Dave really was, ending with, "You're so concerned with appearing masculine, but you have ____no ____idea how to be a man!"__

**_**¶ Go on and cry me a river, cry me a river, I cried a river over you. ¶**_**

* * *

><p>Rachel seemed to sense that here was a true rival for her crown. Wordlessly, she handed Kurt the book. He flipped quickly through the selections, noting which songs were still available. "This one."<p>

Rachel craned her neck over the book and frowned. "That's not a torch song," she snapped imperiously.

After examining his perfectly manicured nails for several seconds, he replied with deliberate __ennui__, "It will be when I get through with it."

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Author's Note:<strong>** I apologize for the long chapter. There was just a lot of ground to cover. Dave shows up in real time in the next chapter, honest!


	10. Déjà vu, Rendez vous

****C********hapter 10: Déjà-vu,******** Rendez-vo********us****

Really, it was hard to imagine the night getting any stranger. He'd been propositioned by a cyber-perv, traumatized by a commando cabbie, robbed at gun point, doused with dairy, counseled by a cat, forced into stolen flannel, and now he was in a diva-off with a pint-sized egomaniac. And what was perhaps worse than all that combined, he was about to meet his ex-lover after six long years and his hair was a __total fucking disaster__! And all because of a dream. Kurt would have started laughing, but the karaoke DJ was already queuing up his music and Kurt had to focus on getting into the right frame of mind. Kurt defiantly pushed his bangs out of his eyes, took his habitual singer's pose (chin up, feet in Third Position, hand on one hip) and prepared to worship at the altar of Stephen Sondheim. As long as he was going to do this thing, he was going to win, damn it!

In fairness to Rachel, for all her self-proclaimed expertise, there was no way she could have known beforehand that the man she had challenged was a genuine counter-tenor, a vocal type so rare that most people never encounter the empyrean sound outside a boys' choir. The elegant, ethereal tone wasn't suited to all musical genres, but it was tailor-made for Broadway classics.

**_**¶ Isn't it rich? Aren't we a pair? ¶**_**

When Kurt began to sing, a hush fell over the bar. Quinn stopped busing tables and turned her sad eyes to the stage. Jesse leaned over the counter and whispered snidely, "Hear that, Finn? That's the sound of talent." And for a few precious moments, Rachel actually stopped talking, realization slowly dawning on her face that her crown was in serious jeopardy. Even the Japanese businessmen, who hadn't really paid attention to the other singers, stopped laughing and put their drinks down.

**_**¶ Me here at last on the ground, you in mid-air. ¶**_**

Kurt impatiently swept his bangs to one side (again). Rachel was absolutely right – it wasn't technically a torch song. But Kurt Hummel did not simply sing songs. He didn't even really perform them. He felt them and lived them, as though the lyrics were his own personal musical diary.

**_**¶ And where are the clowns? Send in the clowns. ¶**_**

So each note that poured from Kurt dripped with thoughts of his past relationships and the choices he'd made. Remembrances that were more rueful than he expected.

**_**¶ Just when I stopped opening doors, ¶**_**

The men who wanted to try for more, but he kept them confined to the 'friend' box. The lovers whose friendship he refused. Was he too inflexible? Had he become too guarded? Kurt's voice soared upward, floating on regret.

**_**¶ Finally knowing the one that I wanted was yours. ¶**_**

When Kurt hit the high-F flawlessly for the third time, Rachel reared back like she'd been smacked in the face. Then the diminutive diva released an indignant huff and stormed over to the judging table.

**_**¶ Making my entrance again with my usual flair. ¶**_**

"I demand that he be disqualified! That's not a torch song and the rules clearly state –" But the Japanese businessmen shushed her sternly and returned their beer-soaked gazes to Kurt, transfixed by the heavenly sound. "Hmph!" Rachel snapped and spun on her heel. She marched towards the bar to demand Finn's moral support.

**_**¶ Sure of my lines - no one is there. ¶**_**

Finn cast his eyes everywhere else so he could pretend Rachel was not heading his way. He smiled with relief when he caught sight of a figure lingering in the doorway.

"Hey, man, come on in!" Finn called.

**_**¶ Isn't it rich, isn't it queer? ¶**_**

Kurt watched intently as the shadowed figure crossed from the entrance to the bar counter. The stage lights shining in his eyes kept Kurt from seeing the man's face, but still he knew. The silhouette, the way he stood and moved and broke step each time Kurt sang another line. There was no one else it could be.

**_**¶ Losing my timing this late in my career. ¶**_**

How can you miss someone so much for six years without even realizing it? Far more vibrato than he meant to allow overwhelmed the next line as Kurt dipped into his lower register.

**_**¶ And where are the clowns? ¶**_**

Kurt ordered himself to focus. He was a professional, goddammit! Professionals do not just lose it up on stage when a lo– , when an ex-boyfriend walks in the room. He swallowed thickly, shoving down the unshed tears, and fought to regain his center, drawing on two decades of training and experience – endless scales and breathing exercises, umpteen times performing with colds, fevers, migraines. But his voice trembled as he forced out the next line, more whispered than sung.

**_**¶ Quick... s-send in … the … c-clowns. ¶**_**

No! He was not going to dissolve into an emotional wreck in front of all these people, in front of that obnoxious Rachel person, in front of Dave! So those damn tears that were trying to fall could just go fuck them–

"Dude, thanks for helping out tonight." Finn tried to get the figure's attention, but the man whose face Kurt couldn't see ignored the bartender completely, continuing to look towards the stage.

Kurt's throat constricted, so many conflicting thoughts and feelings crowding out the air, clogging up the breath. It was only through sheer force of will that he choked out the final phrase, unable to sustain the end note beyond an instant.

**_**¶ Don't b-bother... they're … here. ¶**_**

The only sound in the bar was the low, indistinct murmur of sportscasters coming from the back room TVs. Then a few sniffles were heard, including Kurt's. And then enthusiastic applause. Normally, Kurt thrived on applause, replenished his life force with it. But at that moment it was the last thing he felt he deserved. Without even the tiniest polite fake smile, he turned from the microphone and moved numbly off stage.

Now away from the spotlights, Kurt had just about mustered the courage to look towards the man at the bar, when Rachel shoved a piece of paper in his face. "Mr... Funnel, was it? I have to say that was the second-most riveting performance of that song I have ever heard; Barbra Streisand's being the first, of course. Now if you'll just sign here and initial here and here–"

"W-what?" Kurt tried to focus, but his eyes were misted over and his fingers simply wouldn't close around the pen she was trying to push into his hand.

"It's just a standard legally binding pledge, saying that you, Kurt Funnel, hereby now and forever waive and relinquish all rights to participate in any musical competition sponsored by Finn's Sports and Karaoke Bar; and that you shall furthermore henceforth foreswear, abstain and refrain from singing, humming, harmonizing, chanting, whistling, crooning and/or vocalizing in a manner that could in any way be construed as being of a musical, melodic, melodious, tuneful and/or lyrical nature during such time as you are located within a 50 foot radius of the aforementioned Finn's Sports and Karaoke Bar."

She paused for a nanosecond to draw breath, but Kurt's didn't respond. He was a little preoccupied, what with his head spinning from all the pseudo-legalese and those uncooperative tears still trying to escape.

"My fellow judges, who are, in my opinion, far too kindhearted, have refused to disqualify you, even though you flagrantly disregarded the rules, but I'm sure you understand that as proprietress of this establishment I must preserve the integrity of –"

"Rachel," a deep, soft voice interrupted her gruffly, "why don't you give it a rest? Can't you see the guy's upset?"

Released from her suffocating presence, Kurt dropped wearily into a chair and gratefully accepted the cocktail napkins Dave held out to him. Both men seemed uncomfortable. Both men denied the existence of the jolt that went through them when their fingers brushed.

"Hey, Finn," Dave called roughly, "one dark draft and one Diet Cherry Coke. Unless you're drinking the real stuff these days?"

Kurt shook his head and dabbed his eyes in silence. Dave sat across from him, arms crossed defensively over his chest, waiting.

"Um... hi."

"Hi," Dave replied blankly.

Kurt pushed his bangs aside once more and tried hard to get his brain and mouth in synch. He was going to say __It's great to see you__, but that morphed into "You look great."

Dave eyed him warily. He seemed to waiver on how to respond. He uncrossed his arms and gestured to Kurt's outfit, and then to the bar in general. "You … uh... trying to blend in or something?" he said eventually in a guarded tone.

Kurt blushed self-consciously. Total. Fucking. Disaster. "Oh. I …er … had a wardrobe malfunction earlier this evening, and had to... um... borrow some clothes from a friend."

A bitter, knowing smirk played on Dave's face. "If that's the best he could do, this 'friend' of yours must not like you very much." His tone was cold and dismissive.

But Kurt grinned, remembering Santana's selfish generosity. "No, I guess she doesn't."

Dave didn't miss the significance of the pronoun switch. His expression softened. "So – um... you really got Rachel furious. No one's ever beaten her before."

Kurt glanced over to the bar, where Rachel was railing at Finn, who was doing his best to ignore her while simultaneously pretending to give a damn. "That probably has more to do with her cheating than her talent," Kurt replied tartly.

"Well, there was no way she could cheat on this one." Dave paused and gave Kurt a searching look. "I... I forgot how beautiful your voice is," he said shyly, his lips curling up at the corners in a hesitant smile.

Unfortunately, that sweet, simple, impromptu compliment completely derailed Kurt's original plan. You remember, the one where he ranted like a crazy person about bad dreams and premonitions and warned Dave of a dire, bloody fate awaiting him out there in the night. That's right, the one that almost certainly ended with Dave yelling some variation of __Get the fuck away from me __and storming off. Kurt had become increasingly skeptical of that plan, and now, looking into those lovely hazel eyes, he decided he'd try a subtler approach. Dave was safe, he was among friends. There was no harm in Kurt pretending he'd come down here for the contest. He'd keep Dave talking, go with him to make the night deposit, maybe go back to his place afterward, just to make sure he got home safe –

"You missed my ballad, Dave," Quinn pouted gently as she shifted the drinks from her tray to the table. "I sang __Cry Me a River.__"

"Good song," Dave murmured, not taking his eyes off Kurt.

"It's a __great__ song!" Quinn and Kurt exclaimed in unison. They looked at each other and laughed.

"Hi, I'm a friend –" Kurt began.

"This is my ex-boyfriend Kurt," Dave blurted out loudly. He looked just as surprised as anyone at his outburst. Then he ducked his head, fumbling with his wallet in an unsuccessful effort to hide his blush, which is why he didn't see the flicker of appreciation in Kurt's eyes.

"Oh no!" The waitress shook her head, reaching down to stop Dave's hands, forcing him to look up. "Jesse and other 'second-placers' have already paid for these, and anything else Kurt wants between now and closing time. We're all grateful someone finally put that insufferable, home-wrecking dwarf bitch in her place." Kurt was taken aback by her harsh language, but Quinn just smiled like spun sugar and glided gracefully away.

Kurt and Dave stared at each other for a few minutes in silence.

"Wow," Kurt said at last. He leaned forward, unconsciously placing his hand nearly half-way across the small table. "So am I to presume that you're 'out', at least here?"

"Yeah," Dave sighed heavily, "I'm 'out'. Not to my family back home, but to everyone in New York. Friends, work, church –"

"Church?"

"Yeah. A couple of years ago I joined __Dignity__. It's a support group for gay Catholics. It's really helped me work through my shit." Dave spoke quietly, now staring at his own hand resting on the table's edge.

"That's … that's great, Dave! I'm really happy for you."

Dave looked at him pensively, continuing to search his face. Kurt felt his whole body heating up, and decided maybe hanging together all night wasn't such a good idea, after all.

"Listen, Kurt –"

"Dave, the reason I –"

But their words were cut off by a loud popping noise. A little ceiling plaster fell to the floor by the doorway.

"Okay, listen up, losers! This is a robbery! Everyone up against the wall now!"

Kurt and Dave turned as one towards the man with the pistol. Kurt gasped and began shaking his head. __No!__ No, no, no, no, no! He was cursed! There was no other reasonable explanation.

"All clear back here, babe!" Kurt swung around to see two couples scurrying from the TV room, followed by Lauren, smiling broadly and spinning nunchucks around her large arms with alarming speed and ease.

As the bar staff and patrons lined up slowly along the far wall, Kurt felt a hand tugging to get hold of his. Dave was standing beside him, glaring at the man with the mohawk. Kurt laced their fingers together and squeezed lightly.

Puck swept his arm in a semi-circle down the line, flexing his muscles to intimidate the men and blatantly checking out the ladies. Suddenly, he swung back to point the gun straight at Kurt, frowning deeply.

"Dude, you look familiar. Didn't I rob you already?"

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Author's Note: <strong>**__Dignity USA__ is a national organization supporting LGBT Catholics. I had the hardest time picking Kurt's song. I went through all my Broadway albums, and some off-Broadway, too. When I finally remembered __Send in the Clowns __(ironically, __not__ a song I had in my iPod), I knew it was perfect.

So there you have it – Kurt and Dave in the same room together, in present time, and the crazy just keeps on coming.


	11. Chaos Theory

****Chapter 11: Chaos Theory****

"Are you like some robbery groupie? I never had my own groupie before."

While he appeared flattered, Puck still held his gun level with Kurt's chest. Kurt felt Dave trying to tug him behind him. Kurt's pride flared and he boldly moved further out in front. He couldn't go very far forward, however, because Dave tightened his grip on his hand. Kurt had to settle for giving Puck an extra-withering look. "I see you survived the attack of the Pink Dagger," he said contemptuously.

Puck huffed in exasperation. "That was a total bummer. The cops showed up just when it was getting good."

"Excuse me!" Rachel chirped, stepping forward.

"Uh, Rachel– ," Finn started, reaching out to pull her back. She didn't even acknowledge him.

"You and your girlfriend are disrupting a very important vocal competition and I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Somehow, Puck's head-to-toe leer was sort of endearing. "Girl, you are rocking an __awesome__ nose." Rachel flashed a big smile for an instant at the unexpected compliment, but dropped it fast when she caught a glimpse of Finn and Lauren both glaring. "I sing a little myself, y'know," Puck continued conversationally. "And I play guitar."

Rachel re-gathered her superior attitude. "Well then, as a fellow musician, I'm sure you'll respect the sanctity of the performing space we've created here."

"Oh, I respect it alright!" Puck replied enthusiastically, still not lowering the gun. "Your sound system looks primo. I should come here to practice, y'know, some night you're not doing lame ass Broadway shit." Rachel stepped back, deeply offended, and the other bar denizens just gaped at him in disbelief. "I wanna audition for The Voice this season," he explained earnestly. "Or maybe X-Factor." When Kurt gave a dismissive snort, Puck became defensive. "What? Simon Cowell is a total bad-ass!"

Now Lauren's nunchucks were in motion again, whirling furiously as she advanced on Finn, forcing him towards the cash register. "Okay, big boy," she said sweetly, "time to hand over the night deposit."

Finn looked with panic from Puck to Lauren and back. "Come on, guys, don't do this! I barely take in enough to keep this place going. Seriously, we're getting by month to month here!"

"Sorry, Lurch, but we've got big plans for this cash," Lauren replied, a sly smile on her face.

Once Finn had opened the under-the-counter safe, Puck indicated with a wave of his gun that Finn should return to the side wall. Lauren quickly moved in and stuffed the money in an eco-friendly reusable bag that was slightly larger than the one Kurt had seen before. When she was done, she brought one of the nunchucks crashing down on the register, causing the cash drawer to pop open. She scooped up the remaining bills and small change.

"Now I want everyone to hand Lauren their wallets and cell phones and lay on the gr–"

"Dude, get your hands off her!" Suddenly everyone's focus shifted to the middle of the line-up, where Finn had just roughly yanked Jesse's arm from around Rachel's shoulders.

"Hey, someone's got to protect her and you're too busy worrying about your piggy bank," Jesse shot back smoothly. "Maybe you should stop chasing Rachel and go back to your fiancée, if she'll even have your sorry ass!"

"Quinn is my __ex__-fiancée and Rachel is with __me__ now, so deal with it!" Finn shouted, shoving Jesse so hard he knocked into one of the other patrons in line.

"She's only with you until she realizes what a __loser__ you are!" Jesse shoved Finn back, pushing him into one of the side tables.

"Not this shit again!" Dave grumbled under his breath. He moved to separate them, which required him to let go of Kurt's hand. "Guys, for fuck's sake!"

Just as Dave reached them, Finn swung a right hook at Jesse's face. Jesse ducked and the blow caught Dave on the jaw.

"Hey!" Kurt screamed.

"Sonofabitch, Finn!" Dave roared and charged the bartender. Finn was taller, but Dave was stronger. He drove Finn backwards, plowing right into Puck. The gun went flying and landed halfway across the barroom. Jesse rushed to grab it and Kurt, acting on instinct, moved to intercept Lauren, who was advancing grimly towards the melee, nunchucks twirling viciously.

He was, fortunately, not quite close enough to catch the full force of the blow, but the edge of the hard wood smacked the back of Kurt's head with a nasty 'snap'. His legs gave way and he fell into nothingness.

When he opened his eyes, the bar was still in chaos and two Daves were bending over him. "Don't try to get up," said one. "Don't try to move," said the other. They both reached their fingers into Kurt's hair, although he only felt a single hand as it gently probed at the bump that was already forming. Kurt felt dizzy and squeezed his eyes tight shut. When he opened them again, there was only one Dave. Kurt could see blood on his hand. He couldn't see much beyond that. Everything on the edges of his vision was dark and shapeless.

Dave looked up at something. "Finn, don't be an idiot!" Kurt winced as the deep voice boomed above him. "You can't chase them down!" Dave looked down at Kurt again, clearly torn. "Goddamn dumb-ass!" he swore, shaking his head.

"... Dave...?" Kurt made an effort to focus. Wasn't there something he had to tell Dave, something important? Something to do with visiting a hospital... and doors? He felt so tired and weak. It was pretty late at night, wasn't it. Maybe he'd just close his eyes for a few minutes. Just a quick nap.

"Kurt? Kurt!" Kurt groaned but opened his eyes a bit when Dave struck him lightly on the cheek. "You have a concussion," Dave said loudly. To Kurt it seemed his voice was pushing through water. "You have to stay awake. I'm going to help Finn."

Kurt grabbed at Dave's shirt front and began to protest, but his speech was slurred and incoherent when he tried to say, "... nightmare... hospital..."

"Don't worry, Rachel already called an ambulance. Jesse, look after him. Keep him talking. Kurt – Kurt! Look at me. I'll be right back. Stay awake, okay?"

"Don't... don't... " Kurt mumbled. Don't what? Why couldn't he remember? Well, it couldn't have been that important or he wouldn't have forgotten, right? "... stay... here... " He wasn't even sure if he was still vocalizing, or just thinking the words. Maybe he was asleep and this was another nightmare? Everything was dark and he felt tilted, even though some part of him knew he was lying stretched out flat on the floor. He nearly sobbed when Dave gently but firmly pried his hands off and fled his field of vision. Without Dave to anchor him, the room spun out of control. He closed his eyes again.

"Kurt? Shit!" Kurt couldn't decide – should he frown because that frantic voice wasn't Dave's, or just sink into blessed oblivion like his body wanted to. Frowning seemed like an awful lot of work. Again a light slap stung his cheek. Why was everybody hitting him? Kurt raised his lids and vaguely recognized the man hovering over him. "Kurt!" Jesse's eyes were wide with concern.

"Hmm?" Kurt's eyelids were drooping again.

"Uh... did you like my song?"

"Song?" Kurt furrowed his brow, which was slightly painful, but the pain seemed to kick-start his brain. "You... sang... __Stormy Weather?"__

"That's right. Did you like it?"

Kurt clutched the question in his mind like a lifeline. Even concussed, he was a man of strong opinions. "Good technique... but kinda... dull."

"Well don't sugar coat it or anything!"

Kurt felt hands under his arm pits and he was being hauled to his feet. He swayed dangerously, but someone was holding him tightly around the waist and his arm was over their shoulder. It felt like a man's body he was leaning against.

"Where...?"

Jesse didn't speak that loudly, but it was like a bullhorn in Kurt's ears. "The ambulance will take too fucking long. My place is just round the corner."

"No... Dave is... coming back."

Jesse laughed ruefully. "Something tells me Dave will rip out my intestines and strangle me with them if anything happens to you. Come on." He hefted Kurt up a little straighter. "My roommate's a doctor. He'll know what to do."

Kurt tried to help with the walking, but most of his energy was spent keeping his head from sloshing around. Once they got outside, the cool evening air revived him somewhat and he was a little steadier on his feet. "Please be home, please be home," Jesse chanted under his breath.

He helped Kurt stumble up a narrow stoop and maneuvered him into an elevator. A few more steps and then Kurt was sagging against a door frame like some rolled carpet propped upright. Jesse took his hands off Kurt just long enough to fumble with his keys and get the door open.

"Blaine, get out here! This guy needs help."

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Author's Note:<strong>** Ah-ha! You __had__ to know I wasn't going to give Kurt and Dave a break. The night is not over, after all, and Kurt still hasn't encountered some of my favorite __Glee__ characters. And yes, finally, __finally__ Blaine makes his appearance, as a tiny ray of Klaine comes peaking through my Kurtofsky bias.

What did you guys think of the fight scene? I had the hardest time writing it, because personally I've never been in a barroom brawl. Of course, I've never been in most of the situations poor Kurt has to endure in this story, so I wonder what that says about my increasingly twisted imagination... I love Lauren, and wish I had more badassery for her to do in the story. Who knows, maybe she and Puck will just have to make another appearance? We'll see...


	12. The Kindness of Strangers

****Chapter 12: The Kindness of Strangers****

A slender young man somewhat shorter than Kurt and Jesse, sporting a mess of dark, curly hair, shuffled out of a side room in boxer shorts and a loose white t-shirt, rubbing his eyes.

"What's going on?" he mumbled, obviously groggy with sleep.

"There was a robbery and a fight at Finn's and this guy got hit in the head. I think the bleeding stopped, but he still seems confused."

By the time Jesse had finished this short explanation, Blaine was already noticeably more awake and gingerly prying Kurt's eyes open wider to see his pupils.

"You shouldn't have moved him," Blaine admonished. He started feeling around the back of Kurt's skull, while Jesse continued to hold the actor up. "Did he black out when he hit his head?"

"I don't know."

"How about other injuries?"

Jesse shrugged.

"Very helpful. Don't quit your day job. Let's lay him down in your room."

Jesse looked panicked. "Why __my__ room? What's wrong with __your__ room?"

Blaine frowned as if the answer was obvious. "You know it's not exactly safe for him in there."

"But it's been under control for what, a couple months now? And anyway, your room's cleaner, more hygienic."

Blaine rolled his eyes. "Jesse, I don't think he's in any condition to steal your precious–" He stopped and shook his head sharply. "Y'know what? Okay. Fine. Help me get him to my room, and then bring some warm water and a clean cloth."

Kurt settled gratefully onto soft sheets scented clean with hair gel. "600 thread Egyptian?" he mumbled.

Blaine looked surprised. "You have a keen eye for quality."

"Concussed, not dead," Kurt replied drowsily, sinking back further into the pillow and closing his eyes. He began to drift almost immediately.

"Hey, none of that." Someone squeezed his hand tightly. Kurt felt one side of the bed dip, and vaguely realized someone had sat down. "Open your eyes." Kurt obeyed, and was instantly very glad when he beheld the sexy brunette leaning over him. If this was a nightmare, it was taking a turn for the better.

"What's your name?" Blaine asked, his lips hovering so close to Kurt's ear as he raised Kurt's head to examine his wound.

Kurt shivered slightly from the hot breath in his ear. "Kurt."

"What do you do for a living, Kurt?" Blaine continued to probe through his hair.

"Ow!" Kurt winced as a bolt of pain shot through his head, clearing some cobwebs in its wake. "I'm an actor," he said, his voice a bit stronger. "On _Secret Passions_."

"Ah, a TV actor. No wonder you're so good-looking." Blaine grinned and pulled him up to a sitting position. Kurt felt too weak to stay upright by himself. Leaning Kurt against his own chest, Blaine started taking off the red flannel shirt.

"Who are you?" Kurt asked in a dreamy voice.

"I'm Doctor Anderson. Well, fourth-year med student Anderson, but close enough. Call me Blaine."

The overshirt gone, Blaine began to pull up the black tee.

"Why are you undressing me?" Not that Kurt really minded. It had been quite a while since a beautiful man had played doctor with him. And the flannel was pretty mortifying. Wait! Kurt scrunched his brow. He hated the fabric, hated the fit, hated the style. So why was he wearing that shirt in the first place?

"I have to examine you thoroughly," Blaine replied calmly, "to make sure you don't have any other injuries." Kurt raised his arms obediently and then the tee shirt was gone, too. "You're really gorgeous, you know," Blaine murmured, running practiced fingers down Kurt's bare back, ostensibly checking for bruises or abrasions. "I'll bet you get tired of hearing that." His voice shifted to a more normal volume. "So what happened tonight?"

"I... um..." It was hard to concentrate on anything other than how warm and strong this guy's hands felt on his skin. What a good idea to take those horrid clothes off. "I... don't know. I had to run an errand, I think, but now I can't remember what it was."

Blaine gently laid Kurt back down on the bed, making sure to keep his head supported. "Keep talking." Kurt decided to say __You smell great, Doctor Blaine__as coyly as he could, but Blaine preempted that with another question "What's the last thing you do remember?"

"I was singing." Kurt frowned. "And I was really sad about something." Suddenly, he inhaled sharply and quickly sat up, causing some of the dizziness to return. Blaine was... his hands were rubbing up the inside of Kurt's thighs, shooting heat through the thick denim straight to his groin. It took a moment for his brain to restart. And then Kurt remembered something else. "What did you mean when you said I wasn't safe in here?"

Blaine laughed, a little nervously. "Oh, nothing. Just a joke between Jesse and me. You should lay down." He gently pushed Kurt back down on the bed and leaned over. Again his breath ghosted Kurt's ear as he whispered low and sultry, "You feel safe, don't you, Kurt?"

"I... ooh..." The doctor's hands were back on his legs, warm, light touches in all the right places. It was hot. Exciting. Naughty. The polar opposite of safe. "You're certainly being thorough, Doctor."

"A concussion can cause numbness to the extremities, which indicates nerve damage," Blaine replied innocently. "I'm just making sure your appendages have full sensation."

Kurt groaned softly when Blaine's forearm, seemingly by accident, brushed against the front of his jeans. Blaine immediately pulled back.

"Are you okay? Did that hurt?" Blaine's eyes fixed on the bulge in front of him.

Kur swallowed thickly. "I'm fine." Blaine took a last, lingering look and then stood up, much to Kurt's disappointment. "Is the exam over?" he asked breathless.

"Yes, and I'm pleased to report that everything looks normal." Blaine winked at him. "Better than normal. With a bit of rest, you'll make a full recovery."

But Kurt's body was now wide awake and tingling in a way that was very difficult to ignore, and missing the hot med student's expert touch. "Uh, Doctor? I seem to be experiencing a little, uh, swelling here." Kurt indicated his groin. "Maybe you should have a closer look?"

Blaine grinned wickedly and returned to the bed. "Well, if that's what you want...?"

"Definitely!" Kurt scrambled at the zipper and stripped, amazed how much easier it was to wiggle out of the borrowed baggy jeans than his own skin-tight pants would have been. Blaine helped pull his smooth, toned legs free, admiring the view as he went.

Blaine licked his lips as his hands reached for the waist band of Kurt's underwear.

"Blaine, stop!" Blaine and Kurt both froze.

Jesse stood in the doorway, only a few feet from the bed, holding a bowl of steaming water in his hands, a dry washcloth draped over one arm. "Goddammit, Blaine!"

Blaine gave Kurt an apologetic look. "Don't go away," he murmured soothingly, lightly tracing his fingers down Kurt's bare chest, causing the actor to shiver. "I'll be right back."

"What the hell are you doing?"Jesse whispered harshly when Blaine came over to him. "I leave you alone for three minutes and you've got the guy almost naked."

"Just giving my patient a thorough examination."

"I'm calling your sponsor."

"Jesus Christ, Jesse, it's almost 4 AM! And anyway, he's totally into it."

"That's not the point. You can't afford to have a relapse, even at home. Now go take a cold shower or something. I'll take care of Kurt."

"Fine!" Blaine snapped. "Clean the head wound. I'll get him some decent clothes." With a dark scowl, he stalked off.

Jesse just stood there shaking his head. Then he placed the bowl of hot water on the nightstand, and sat on the bed next to Kurt, who had propped himself up against the headboard.

"I'm really sorry about that," Jesse said as he dipped the wash cloth in the water and then started to wipe the dried blood from Kurt's hair.

Kurt winced as the heat met the bump on his skull, but he was kind of glad to have something else to feel besides unsatisfied arousal. "What's going on here?" he asked cautiously.

Jesse looked embarrassed. "Uh, Blaine has some, um, impulse control issues."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, uh, believe it or not, our young Dr. House is a sex addict." Kurt's eyes widened incredulously. "I know," Jesse laughed. "When I first met him, I thought it was just a convenient excuse for being a cock slut. But he has a therapist and a sponsor and everything, just like an alcoholic." Jesse rinsed the cloth and reapplied it to the back of Kurt's head. "Don't get me wrong, I think he's into you. Which, even though I'm straight, I can totally understand. But you're also a guy in distress and that triggers some compulsion in him. If he weren't a genuinely talented doctor, I'm sure his therapist would insist he change professions, because he's under pretty much constant temptation at the hospital."

_Hospital_. Something clicked in Kurt's head about the mysterious errand. He was visiting someone in the hospital. His dad? One of his costars? No, not visiting exactly –

Blaine returned, derailing his train of thought. He held out a pair of black leather pants and a black leather vest with elaborate dark gray embroidery.

"You didn't go near –" Jesse began with concern.

"Relax, I didn't touch it. Still safe and sound. These are just a few things you won't miss." Blaine turned to Kurt, a bit sheepish but still entirely too adorable. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have tried to take advantage of you. It was very unprofessional. But in a way it's your own fault, for being irresistible."

He feathered a touch to Kurt's forehead and swept his hair out from his eyes. Kurt smiled as he stretched his own hand to rest on Blaine's thigh. He was hot, he was bothered. Sex with the studly med student still seemed like a very good idea. Kurt just wanted to ignore Jesse's protests, as well as the strange, uneasy feeling he was supposed to be doing something … else. Blaine was also clearly still interested. The fire returned to his eyes and Blaine licked his lips indecently. He bent forward and latched onto Kurt's mouth briefly before Jesse yanked him off.

"Hey guys, I'm right here!"

"Yes, yes, you are," Blaine purred, looked Jesse up and down as his left hand lightly brushed along the length of Kurt's taut torso. "And looking particularly sexy tonight." Blaine reached his right hand between Jesse's legs.

Jesse jerked away, jumping up from the bed. "Stop that! I like girls." He sounded nervous and uncertain.

"C'mon, Jesse," Blaine soothed as he pulled lube and condoms from his nightstand drawer. "All these frustrating months trying to get into Rachel's pants. Don't you want a little relief? And you can't deny you're at least bi-curious." Jesse bit his lip hesitantly, while Kurt's eyes flitted between the two other men, his own curiosity mounting.

"I'll make you both feel so good," Blaine crooned, generously applying lube to one hand and tucking his fingers inside Kurt's briefs. Kurt groaned as Blaine's fingers played beneath the fabric. "Kurt's okay with sharing, aren't you, Kurt?"

Blaine rubbed in slow, sexy circles while the gel warmed to a low fire. Kurt could barely stand the pressure as the good doctor picked up speed. He nodded and started panting loudly. Blaine's other hand reached for Jesse's zipper. This time Jesse didn't move away, and Blaine tugged the zipper down, smiling triumphantly when he saw that Jesse had gone commando for the evening.

"How about it, gorgeous?" Blaine's voice was low and hungry, his mouth now hovering over the undeniable activity in Jesse's pants. "I promise I'll satisfy you more than any woman ever did."

With a sigh, Jesse closed his eyes and dropped trow. Blaine slid his free hand over Jesse's narrow waist, up toward his broad chest and down again to his hips. He pressed Jesse closer to the bed, then teased expertly until Jesse was moaning and ready. Kurt felt the hiccup in Blaine's rhythm, two men, two beats not quite in sync.

Jesse moaned loudly and Blaine turned from Kurt, now shifting both hands to hold Jesse in place as the doctor worked on his body. Suddenly Kurt had been abandoned.

His eyes fluttered open. He tried to grasp Blaine's hand again and lead it back, but Blaine disengaged with a slightly annoyed whine.

_"Excuse me?"_ the counter-tenor squeaked. The only reply was Jesse's moans as Blaine focused all his energy there.

"Oh my god, Blaine," Jesse ground out breathlessly, "so hot... ugh... so wet..."

Blaine pulled his mouth away agonizingly slowly. "You feel so fucking perfect," he murmured "Only you, Jesse... "

Kurt just stared as the two other men fell deeper and deeper into their own lust-addled world. Had he just been ejected from his first threesome? It only took a few seconds before Kurt decided he was in no mood to play audience for Jesse's gay experimentation. He shifted off the bed and grabbed his clothes, as well as the things Blaine had brought.

"I guess I'll just..."

By way of answer, Jesse grabbed Blaine by the shoulders and tossed him onto the now vacant bed, falling none-too-gently on top of him. They began French kissing vigorously, hands going everywhere.

As the bathroom door closed behind him, Kurt heard the bed begin to creak rhythmically. He dropped the clothes on the floor.

"Oh, what the hell," he muttered, pushing his underwear down to take hold of his own painful need. He closed his eyes and let the gasps and grunts from the other room wash over him. He imagined Blaine on his knees, caressing him. Yes! Then he pictured Blaine drawing closer, mouth opening into a delicate 'o' to service him. Kurt pressed against the door, tossing his head side to side, panting as the Blaine of his imagination picked up speed, each time taking Kurt further and further into his mouth. Kurt groaned and quickened his pace, picturing his hands gripping a dark mess of curly hair. Close... so close... fuck!

But Blaine began to change. His face elongated, his eyebrows refined, the dark hair became shorter, the shoulders broadened. __Kurt...__ the voice moaned. It was deeper than Blaine's, huskier, sweeter. __I love you.__

"Ahh! Da-ave!" Kurt cried suddenly. He came hard and sank to his knees, legs quivering. As he came down from his orgasm, Kurt's mind cleared fully, the cloak of amnesia withdrew, and his quick post-coital gasps became hard, hiccuping sobs. "Oh, Dave! Oh, no!"

* * *

><p>Less than 10 minutes later, Kurt emerged from the bathroom. He'd washed up, dressed, styled his hair (it was off his forehead, at least), and downed a handful of Tylenol. Jesse was on his back on the bed with Blaine on top of him. Blaine didn't even look up, but Jesse gave Kurt a wink and a half-wave as he rushed by.<p>

Finn's Sports and Karaoke Bar was dark and padlocked shut. Kurt banged on the door. He shouted for Rachel! Quinn! Finn! Anybody! The wind lifted Kurt's pleas, mixed them with the swirling garbage and sent it all rushing away down the deserted New York street. Kurt stumbled aimlessly after the wind for a few blocks, until he finally slumped against a lamp post, head bowed. Game over.

A low, angry male voice from behind made him turn sharply.

"Yo, bitch, back off! This ain't your corner!"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: So there you have it – <strong>__Jesse St. Blaine__**_._**** Now all the Kurtofsky fans can breathe easy again. LOL!**


	13. Working Girls

****Chapter 13: Working Girls****

Kurt spun around – too quickly, as it turned out. He stumbled slightly with dizziness, before refocusing his eyes to behold a bespectacled young man in a wheel chair. The guy looked about Kurt's age, but it was hard to tell, his outfit was so distracting. He was sporting a tight, dark burgundy velvet suit with wide lapels, a frilly green shirt with overflowing cuffs, and a red cravat at his throat. His hair was slicked back and parted mercilessly (1920s style) and for shoes – Kurt did a double take. Were those old-fashioned spats?

The man in the retro Austin Powers knock-offs was flanked by an Asian couple who looked even more outrageous. Both were wearing heavy makeup that fell just this side of circus-worthy. The young woman had bright fuchsia streaks in her hair. She wore a tomato red corset and matching top hat with black vinyl shorts and a gold sequined bow tie around her neck. The guy – well, the skinny jeans were okay, but the less said about his electric blue, spike-studded sleeveless leather vest and matching gloves the better. The high, glossy black pompadour was definitely a bit grotesque. But, man! The guy was shirtless and sporting some serious abs. If Kurt hadn't just wasted the past half hour trying to get laid instead of looking for Dave, he might have been tempted to let his gaze linger.

"Whose 'ho you be?" the man in the wheelchair demanded sharply. "Who's stupid enough to try to muscle in on Fast Artie's turf?"

"Uh, no one. I-I was just leaving," Kurt stammered, starting to walk off.

"Yo, yo, yo – not so fast, cheekbones!" Fast Artie called. The tall Asian man quickly stepped in front of Kurt, while the woman moved behind him, blocking off a retreat. Kurt's eyes darted sideways –he could probably outrun the woman in her cherry red rhinestone heels, but the guy looked pretty buff and wiry.

Fast Artie rolled forward quickly, eager to appraise Kurt up close. "You freelance? That's not a smart move in Alphabet City. But maybe I can help you out," the pimp continued unctuously, now rolling around Kurt for a leisurely 360 view. "I'm always on the lookout for fresh talent, and you look about as fresh as they come. We'll have to do something about the wardrobe, though. My bitches are known for their colorful attire."

Kurt didn't even remember what he was wearing at this point. He looked down at himself. Oh yeah, the tight black tee shirt Santana had stolen, Blaine's black leather vest with the extravagant – one might say flamboyant – gray embroidery, Jesse's black leather pants, which showed off Kurt's shapely ass surprisingly well, and his own knee high black boots. Basic black never went out of style, of course, but Kurt silently agreed with the pimp - this was a little __too__ funereal.

"How do you feel about silver lamé?" Fast Artie mused.

"Have you seen a muscular guy with a mohawk and a large woman with glasses and nunchucks running around this area?" Kurt interrupted, desperate to change the subject and horrified at the image of himself wearing such a costume. "Maybe being chased by two other men?"

"You mean Puck and Lauren?" Fast Artie laughed when Kurt started in surprise. "You really are green, aren't you? No one who knows what's good for them goes looking for those two."

"HEY!"

A tall, broad-shouldered police officer stalked towards the group from halfway down the block. Kurt swallowed hard. __Oh god, oh god, I'm going to be arrested! Kurt Hummel is going to be arrested for solicitation! I'll be a laughing stock –the Hugh Grant of daytime TV.__ The only thing Kurt could think to do was strike his defiant bitch-diva pose. He knew it wouldn't help, but being in control of himself made him feel a little more in control of the situation. When the cop stepped into the light, Kurt was surprised to see it was a woman, an incredibly tall, solid mass of female, wearing bright red lipstick that really didn't suit her complexion. Would she go easier on him if he recommended a more flattering shade? Probably not the best time to suggest a make-over, he decided.

"Yo, Officer Beiste, 's up?" Much to Kurt's surprise, Fast Artie fist-bumped the hulking police woman.

"It's a busy night for the Panther," she replied, and Kurt marveled at her low, gravelly voice. A dramatic contralto? "Hey, Tina, hey Mike." She nodded to the costumed couple before surveying Kurt with piercing ice blue eyes. "A new recruit?"

"We're negotiating," Artie replied smoothly.

Kurt's diva face fell flat. He looked back and forth between the pimp and the officer, blinking uncomprehendingly. "Wait! You're not going to arrest us?"

The cop laughed loudly. It was a harsh sound, but there was no malice behind it. She seemed genuinely amused. "He's cute, Artie, like a lost goth puppy. Nah, don't worry, kid. Artie and me got an arrangement. He feeds me certain information at regular intervals and I stay out of his business. Speaking of business," she continued somberly, turning to Artie again, "you hear of anything strange happening in the neighborhood tonight?"

"Sandy's place and Finn's place both got robbed," the pimp replied, "but there's nothing strange about that."

"Yeah," she replied. "Puck and Lauren pulled a Bonnie and Clyde number tonight, hit a bunch of places." Kurt was dumbfounded that a member of law enforcement could chat about armed robbers like they were old friends. "We tracked them to Club Wilde, but the owner's got some heavy-duty connections and we weren't allowed in to search the place. But I know those two – they'll get bored and resurface sooner or later and then we'll get 'em."

"W-what did you mean strange, Officer Beiste?" The woman Tina stammered nervously, turning pale under her garish makeup and moving closer to Mike. "Like what happened to Suzy Pepper last week?" Mike looked equally anxious. He put an arm protectively around Tina but said nothing.

The policewoman's expression turned grim. "Now before anybody panics, we've got extra officers out patrolling the area and I promise we are going to catch this sick fuck."

"What sick fuck?" Kurt squeaked in alarm.

Officer Beiste sighed heavily. "You must not follow the local news much. They're calling him the 'East Village Ripper'. He's killed three prostitutes in the last six weeks, one man and two women." She looked at the ground and shook her head in disbelief. "Twisted bastard!"

"He got Suzy last week," Artie said softly, all bravado and confidence gone from his voice. "She was one of Terri S.'s gals and almost as psycho, but she didn't deserve that." He turned his chair slightly to face Kurt. "That's why I was telling you going freelance is a bad idea around here." Even the cop nodded at Kurt, who had a strange, wholly inappropriate smile on his face.

Yes! For the first time that evening, Kurt felt a giddy sort of relief. The cat was right! And the nightmare __had been__ a premonition, not just a product of Kurt's paranoia or some unconscious longing to reconnect with Dave. He coughed roughly to stifle the hysterical giggling he knew his audience wouldn't understand.

And then it was like someone flipped off a light switch, plunging him into the emotional dark. Oh shit, oh shit! __Dave!__ Desperation began clawing its way up his throat, and he coughed even more harshly to suppress the panicked scream that would have been equally ill-timed at that moment.

"It's a little after 4 now. It'll be light in a couple of hours," the policewoman continued. "If you can knock off for the night, that's the safest." She held up her hand when Fast Artie started to protest. "Otherwise, my best advice is stay close to home base," she gestured to the seedy motel behind them, "and stick to your regular customers. You've got my number, Artie. Call if you see __any__ apples out of joint."

She gave a nod to Kurt. "Welcome to the neighborhood, uh...?"

"Vaughn." No way was he giving his real name, at least not until they were actually booking him and taking fingerprints.

"Stay safe guys and gals," Officer Beiste called over her shoulder, giving a backhanded waive as she swaggered grandly down the dim street, tapping her billy club against her palm like she owned the world and intended to beat the living shit out of it if it didn't behave.

Artie turned to Kurt, smiling. "Vaughn, huh? That's a good hooker name, sounds classy but still fake. So my cut is 60 percent." Kurt's mouth gaped open a little. "I know that sounds high, but you can ask around – it's the going rate in these parts. In exchange, you get my protection and therefore the protection of your friendly neighborhood NYPD. There's just one thing– you'll have to go both ways. And wear brighter colors. Maybe something with stripes...?"

"Enough!" Kurt snapped. He straightened to his full height and turned the bitch-face to Level 7, keeping some in reserve. "First of all," he said haughtily, "I am not a prostitute. Nor am I a street walker, a hooker, a whore or a 'ho." Artie smirked, which just infuriated Kurt further, causing his voice, his chin and the bitch-face to ratchet up a notch. "And second, much as I would love to stay and debate the merits of metallics versus jewel tones, I'm running out of time to find someone before something terrible happens to him and right now – and I can't believe I've been reduced to this – my only lead is that felonious duo Puck and Lauren. So if you'll just point me toward Club Wilde I'll be on my way and out of yours."

Despite what Kurt thought was a clever and cutting defense of his honor and his mission, Artie continued to grin smugly at him. "Club Wilde has a steep cover. You got any money?" he asked knowingly.

"I have five–" Kurt stopped abruptly. Santana's five dollars – they were in the stolen jeans, now lying crumpled somewhere on the floor of Blaine's bedroom. "No, okay! I don't have any money!" he snapped.

Just then a badly dented, rusty sub-compact pulled up to the corner. Artie, Tina and Mike all adopted disgusted and superior expressions when the man exited the car.

"Good evening, Mr. Fast Arthur," said the dark man in a sing-song South Asian accent, bowing slightly.

"What do you want, Figgins?" Artie sneered. Even though his head was tilted up, he was definitely looking down his nose at the man. Kurt watched Tina and Mike's contemptuous faces, confused. Okay, maybe pimps could get away with being rude, but weren't hookers supposed to sweet talk their clients, make them feel like sex gods with magic dicks or something?

"I was interested in a repeat of last time, but I see a new individual has joined your organization." Figgins licked his lips eagerly, as if trying to devouring Kurt from afar.

Kurt blanched and began shaking his head, but Artie rolled in front of him and spoke up quickly, baiting the man. "This is Vaughn. __Very__ exclusive. You don't have the __cojones__ to handle him."

The strange man named Figgins fondled himself through his trousers. "As much as I hate to contradict you, Mr. Fast Arthur, I must point out that my co-jo-nes, as you call them" (the awkward way he said the word it sounded like 'Ko-Joe-Nays') "are firmly attached to my body." He beamed a wide, closed-mouthed smile at Kurt that he probably meant to be reassuring. "Firmly," he growled. Kurt wanted to hurl. "How much?"

"How much? HOW MUCH?" Kurt shrieked, shaking with indignation as he looked back and forth between Artie and Figgins.

Artie threw the Indian man an oily smile. "Excuse us a moment. I need to consult with my associate." He pulled Kurt to one side, whispering quickly. "You need money, don't you? 60/40 split, like I told you, but you'll get enough for the club cover. Don't worry – he's a regular. Likes to play games, harmless stuff. Oh, and he gets off on bitchy people." Artie winked at Kurt. "Just be yourself."

Kurt felt sick to his stomach. But he had to get into that damn nightclub. He had to find Dave before the East Village Ripper struck again.

"One-hundred dollars for 30 minutes," Artie announced smoothly.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Fast Arthur, but that's simply too much. My budget won't allow it." He seemed about return to his car and drive away.

Kurt had a desperate inspiration. He slipped into his haughty 'Vaughn' persona. "Get back here, you insignificant bean counter," he snapped, his high voice echoing off the tall buildings around them. "How __dare__ you presume that you have a choice! Ants don't get to pick who steps on them."

Figgins looked back, mouth hanging open, eyes wide with amazement and desire. He started walking eagerly towards Kurt, who began meticulously inspecting his own nails. When Figgins was just shy of an arm's length from him, Kurt let out a heavy sigh and turned away. "No, I changed my mind. You bore me, bean counter, in your shit-brown Sears jacket and __eau de drug store__ cologne." He paused, just like he would have if he were delivering the line on the show, and then said with cold disdain, "You are dismissed. Run along home."

Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt could see a bulge starting to form in the man's pants. He suppressed a shudder of disgust.

"Oh my, he's magnificent! I agree, one-hundred dollars." The man pulled a roll of bills from his pocket.

"You've made an excellent deal, Mr. Figgins," Artie beamed, snatching the money quickly. "Room number 6, as usual. Now play nice with the gentleman, Vaughn." Kurt opened his mouth to sling out some devastating retort, but none came to mind. He snapped his mouth shut, made his face an icy mask, and walked to the motel entrance, proud chin leading the way.

"And remember, Vaughn," Artie called. Kurt turned in the doorway, genuinely pissed off. Fuck the dream. Fuck the cat. Fuck the Ripper. He'd do his best to act the part, but no __fucking__ way was he fucking Figgins! Kurt's expression was enough to make Mike blanch, but Artie winked again and smiled coyly. "Just be yourself."

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Author's Note:<strong>** Just so there's no misunderstanding, I don't mean to imply _anything_about the honesty and integrity of the New York Police Department. This story is crack!fic from start to finish, and no characterizations of military veterans or police officers or school teachers or immunologists or anyone else should be taken as representing how I think such people would behave in real life.

FYI, yes, Tina, Artie and Mike are dressed in variations of their respective costumes from __The Rocky Horror Glee Show__, and Artie's silver lamé suggestion for Kurt was inspired by the truly hideous Lady Gaga monstrosity Kurt wore in __Theatricality__. Further FYI, a 'dramatic contralto' is the lowest possible female singing voice type. Like a genuine adult countertenor, a genuine dramatic contralto is extremely rare.

So now we have accounted for well over half the regular Glee cast in this AU. Who's left, I wonder? If you answered Sue Sylvester, Will, Mercedes and Sam, you get a gold star! But exactly how will they appear and when? Is anyone else going to show up? Another recurring character, perhaps? Who is the East Village Ripper? What is Figgins' kink, and how far will Kurt have to go to satisfy it? Don't worry, all will be revealed in time...


	14. The Lord Helps Those Who Help Themselves

****Chapter 14: The Lord Helps Those Who Help Themselves****

"This is so exciting!" Figgins hummed, practically skipping into the shabby room, pulling a large wheeled luggage bag behind him. Kurt entered with considerably more reluctance, and immediately set to work ignoring the yellowing water stains on the walls. Well, he __hoped__ it was water...

"I just wish we had more time together. There are so many games I'd like to play with you."

Kurt shuddered and involuntarily scanned the room for any means of escape, his eyes finally returning in defeat to glare at the South Asian man. "Can we do this without talking?" he snapped. "Your voice is giving me hives."

"Oooh, so good." Figgins started rubbing between his legs. "Say something else," he said eagerly, "something cruel but witty."

"Please tell me you're sterile. The idea of you reproducing is too horrifying to contemplate."

Figgins appeared to swoon. "Ughh." He reached down into his unzipped pants. "More!" he choked out as he began stroking himself eagerly.

Kurt glimpsed salvation. He looked Figgins up and down with his best Vaughn sneer and shook his head in mock surprise. "My god! Evolution completely passed you by, didn't it?"

"Aaah...oh my...mmm." Figgins was now fully aroused, panting and salivating like a dog begging for table scraps "... harsher..."

He licked his lips and took a step forward. Kurt flashed a look of horror. "Don't touch me! I already feel the need to bathe in disinfectant."

"Yes …ooh...," Figgins's hand was moving in a blur. "...so... oh, fudge... so close...mock me, mock me!"

"You know, a lobotomy would actually __improve__ your personality. Never an ice pick when you need one."

"Oh, oh! Sooo g-good!" Figgins was rocking rhythmically, eyes closed, head thrown back, mouth open and drooling. "Come on... oh... Vaughn... ugh... bring … oh ...bring me home!"

"Now I know why Oedipus gauged out his eyes."

"Aah... aahh … oh yes... oh...YE-ESSS!"

Figgins erupted like a skanky Krakatoa. Kurt jumped aside just in time to avoid getting splattered. "Well," he huffed imperiously as the South Asian man recovered from his orgasm, "I think this experience has put me off sex for life. Was it good for you?"

"Better than good! And I commend your use of literary allusions." He finished tucking himself back in his trousers and grinned mischievously at Kurt. "Am I right in guessing that you have __European__ experience?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. __Whatever___._ He turned his head and looked at Figgins sideways. "So we're done here?" he asked coldly.

Figgins seemed taken aback. "Oh, no! I'm paying quite handsomely for your time, and by my watch we still have 25 minutes."

Kurt blinked in panic. "But I thought... I mean, you just, you know..."

"Yes," Figgins nodded vigorously, "and it was __very__ satisfactory, as I've said. But that was just the sex. Now comes the real fun." He gave Kurt another wide, closed mouthed smile and turned to the luggage behind him. His body blocked Kurt's view, but Kurt could hear him unzip the mysterious bag and begin rummaging around. "Now let me see, what game can we play in 25 minutes? No, that one takes too long. That one's too complicated. I know! Hmm... darn it! I didn't bring the right batteries."

Kurt was just about to bolt for the door when Figgins wheeled around.

"So which shall it be, Mr. Vaughn?" he crowed triumphantly, holding out a colorful but harmless looking box in each hand. "Parcheesi or Boggle?"

* * *

><p>Exactly 23 minutes and 12 seconds later, Kurt practically tore the shabby motel's front door off its hinges when he threw it open and stomped furiously down the steps. Fast Artie was waiting at the curb.<p>

"Have you given any thought to my stripes suggestion?"

Kurt advanced with clenched fists, his eyes blazing fire, his voice like ice. "My money," he ground out murderously.

Artie's eyes went wide. "Sure, sure. Calm down, yo." He nervously handed over the cash and then wheeled back to huddle with Mike and Tina. "You are one scary bitch, Vaughn."

"You have __no__ idea."

* * *

><p>The line outside the club was long. Like, <em><em>Harry Potter<em>__-_movie-premier long. Kurt clutched his $80 and obsessively counted the number of people ahead of him over and over, fidgeting nervously until someone yelled at him to go in the alley if he was that desperate to piss. As he drew near the front of the red velvet rope, he noted with dread that the very short, very blond, very bespectacled woman with a phone adapter in her ear was checking names against a list. She wore a big button on her lapel,

_H.B.I.C. (Head Becky In Charge)_

"Next! Name?"

"Kurt Hummel."

Becky scanned down her clip board. "Not on the list."

"But I can pay –" Kurt began.

She shook her head emphatically. "Opening night is by invitation only. Next!"

Kurt didn't budge. "You don't understand, a knife-wielding maniac is after my friend and I've got to warn him."

The blonde laughed. "If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that line!" She reached up and waived her hand dismissively in his face. "Go shake your booty somewhere else, hot stuff."

And then Kurt... snapped. He lunged at the tiny woman, gripping her upper arms tightly. Five solid hours of exhaustion and stress and worry came pouring out as he shook her and shouted, "Please! I'm not lying. My friend is in terrible danger. You have to let me in! Please, there's no time – "

"Oh, __HELL__ to the no! You are __not__manhandling my girl Becky!"

Kurt looked over Becky's shoulder and gasped, eyes popping. Mercedes Jones, __the__Mercedes Jones, was parting the crowd like a hot knife slicing through butter, her entourage (manager, personal assistant, stylist, photographer, puppy handler and bodyguard) scurrying to keep up. She was dressed to kill in a long, shimmering diamond white Versace cocktail dress, over which she had artfully draped a faux-mink stole.

Kurt immediately released the door keeper and stepped back respectfully. "I"m so sorry, uh, Becky," he said contritely. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Jones. I normally abhor violence."

The three-time Grammy winner nodded regally. "Hmph." She turned to the woman with the clip board. "You okay, Becky?"

"Yes, Ms. Jones. We thought you weren't coming tonight."

A shadow crossed Mercedes' face. She hid it quickly, though, behind an insouciant mask. "I changed my mind. Celebrities get to do that."

"I'll tell the mistress you've arrived." Becky cupped her ear and began speaking into the phone piece.

Mercedes strutted towards the red velvet rope. Kurt realized the star was about to sweep past him and into the club unhindered – because there was no place in the known universe where __she__ was not on the list. If he could somehow join her group...

"I'm a huge fan," he called out truthfully, his high voice rising distinctly above the general din of the crowd. "I own every one of your CDs. And your __Carmen Jones__ last year was beyond fabulous. As far as I'm concerned, April Rhodes __stole__that Tony Award!"

She paused and contemplated him coolly for a moment. "All my CDs, huh? Favorite song?" she demanded.

"__Divas Like Us.__ It's my official personal anthem."

Mercedes seemed placated. "Hmm, good choice." Other people in the rope line started pointing and murmuring excitedly. Mercedes looked a little bored. She motioned Kurt to step closer, which he did, after glancing cautiously at her tall, tanned, well-muscled bodyguard. "So, Mr. 'I abhor violence,' why were you shaking that girl? I heard you shouting something about terrible danger."

Kurt just didn't have the strength to lie. He drew a deep breath and braced for rejection. "Ms. Jones, do you believe in premonitions?"

Her expression changed instantly, becoming somber and sincere. After searching his eyes suspiciously for a few seconds, without another word she locked arms with him as if they'd been best friends since high school and steered them both towards the entrance. Stunned, it took Kurt's feet a nanosecond to catch up to the rest of him. "It's okay, Anthony," Mercedes assured her bodyguard, who nevertheless cracked his knuckles loudly in Kurt's direction. "Becky," she tossed over her shoulder, "just add this one to my bill."

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Additional AN:****** Regarding Figgins' kink, I hope it made you laugh. I didn't want Kurt to actually have to **__touch__** Figgins or let Figgins touch him. Too creepy and I didn't want that image in my or anyone else's head!**


	15. Into the Wilde

****Author's Note: ****Yes, at last the inimitable Sue Sylvester makes her grand appearance in this chapter. I describe what she's wearing, but you can find a photo of her if you search for "Jane Lynch Madonna." You'll know it when you see it.

A friend who lives in New York pointed out to me that my depiction of a sex club is horribly dated. If such places ever did exist, they are now entirely virtual. But with so little else in this story reflecting reality, I hope the improbability of Club Wilde doesn't bother readers too much.

Laugh! Enjoy! Review! Ella

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Chapter 15: Into the Wilde<strong>**

As Kurt expected, the front part of Club Wilde was loud, raucous and packed wall to wall with dancing, writhing bodies. The first man who walked by in a __mardi gras__mask and leather chaps startled him. His brain could barely process that the two gorgeous topless women following the man were bound with their hands in front, and he was leading them on a split leash. But by the time Kurt saw the fourth fully-masked, barely-clothed person – not to mention the elegant middle-aged lady sipping a green cocktail while a bare-chested, nubile young man knelt at her feet, sucking on her toes – he had a pretty good idea just what type of club this was. The spanking pillar was kind of a give-away, too.

From what he could tell, the scene was not to Mercedes' liking. She kept pushing through the nightmarish __cirque de soleil__, moving towards the back of the huge club, away from the frenzied crowds. When they passed the sequined contortionists, she tightened her grip on his arm, and both singers held their breath until the Babylonian snake handlers and their living, slithering necklaces had moved on.

Kurt figured it was time to explain himself, but Mercedes held up her free hand and whispered sharply, "Wait until we find someplace private."

"Well, well, Ms. Jones! I'm almost sorry to see you didn't stand me up. I was plotting the most diabolical revenge. It involved a red iguana, ceiling fans and a harpoon."

Mercedes pivoted on her heel to face the acidic voice, swinging Kurt around as well. "Mistress Sue, always a pleasure." Mercedes didn't sound very pleased. She smiled tightly at the very, very tall woman with spiky blond hair, who was wearing –

God, what __was__ she wearing? It would have been a sharp, impeccably tailored lady's double-breasted tuxedo, except for... well, the breasts. Kurt couldn't say 'except for _her _breasts_'_. Oh, doubtless her breasts were in there somewhere, but two large, pointy, __metal__ silver cones protruded from vertical slits in the black jacket. From what he could see, the bustier beneath looked to be made of... chain mail? Who the hell wears metal lingerie?

"Now we're just waiting for the Senator, although if he doesn't arrive soon it's not the worst thing," she mused darkly. "His housekeeper has a seasonal leprosy problem she'd rather I not reveal, and there are some recipes in the Lucrezia Borgia cookbook I haven't tried, yet."

"Wasn't she a famous Renaissance poisoner?" Kurt asked before he could stop himself.

Sue narrowed her eyes. "Your point being...?"

Kurt swallowed nervously. He felt safer with the boa constrictors.

Mercedes patted his arm reassuringly. "Mistress Sue, is there someplace my friend and I could be alone for a few minutes."

Sue raked her eyes over Kurt and smirked unpleasantly. "I didn't realize your tastes were so low brow, Ms. Jones." She snapped her fingers and one of the minions at her elbow bowed low and handed her a bullhorn. "IGOR!" Her harsh bellowing boomed easily above the __thump, thump, thump__ of the driving music, causing everyone within a 12-foot radius to jump.

"Yesh, Mithtreth?"

Out of nowhere, a slender man in his mid-30s hobbled – yes, __hobbled__ – up, dressed head to toe in what could only generously be described as rags – clumsily stitched together swatches of worn, torn, singed greys, browns and blacks. He was bent over nearly in half, with a large hump – that's right, a __hump__ – on the left side of his back. Despite all that, the face craning awkwardly upwards was boyishly pleasant. Tightly curled light brown hair peaking out under his cowl as he looked up at Sue with deep-set eyes, apprehensively awaiting her command.

"Igor, escort our guests to a private box overlooking the Arena."

"But you told me to thearch for the Counthhilman's mithhing thumb, Mithtreth."

Sue smacked him hard upside the head and he stumbled sideways. "I didn't rescue you from that angry mob of albino gypsies so you could give me attitude! Now do as I say, Quasimodo, or there'll be an extra dose of rat droppings in your rations tomorrow!"

"Yesh, Mithtreth. Very thorry, Mithtreth." The hunchback bowed awkwardly and swept his arm to the side. "Thir, Madame, pleath come thith way."

Kurt and Mercedes exchanged uncertain glances, but then simultaneously shrugged, adjusted their respective hairdos and set off after the deformed man. Mercedes' entourage followed behind at a discrete distance. As soon as Sue was out of sight, Igor straightened up and his steps became smooth and fluid.

Mercedes looked stunned. "Did some medieval curse just get lifted?"

At this point, Kurt's tolerance for the bizarre was so high, he just shook his head slightly. __Whatever___._

"No," the former cripple laughed. "Ugh! Now I can take this thing off for a few minutes." He reached into his ragged tunic, undid some snaps and a hard sack fell to the floor behind him. He stretched to his full height and cracked his neck. "O thank god! This job is __ruining__my posture."

"Igor , why–" Mercedes began.

"My real name is Will." He smiled apologetically at her baffled expression. "Sue was looking for a lisping hunchback and I had to leave Bulgaria in a hurry, so we made a deal."

Kurt started to giggle uncontrollably. "__Of course__ you did!" Either he was losing his mind, or he was Patient Zero in a madness epidemic.

"O–kaay?" Will nodded, confused. "Well, I'll show you to your box. Please don't tell __Mithtreth Shue__ about me taking off the hump."

Kurt breathed in slowly and counted to ten to get his giggles under control while Igor/Will led them down a long, curved, dark walnut paneled corridor, lined on the left side with black doors. He opened one, inviting them into a small opera box, walled on three sides with an open front overlooking a theater in the round. Identical opera boxes and rows of red cushioned seats rose up four levels from the stage. The acoustics must be amazing, Kurt thought. Brass wall sconces gave off a dim light in the box, showing how the plush burgundy carpet perfectly complimented the claret chaise lounge and settee. Every item in the booth was high quality, Kurt noted, and no doubt expensive, but a bit on the gaudy side. He got the sneaking suspicion whoever decorated this part of the club had better taste than they were allowed to express.

Mercedes instructed Anthony and the others to wait in the hallway. As soon as they were alone, she grabbed Kurt by the leather vest and practically threw him against the wall. "How the __hell__ did you know?" she hissed furiously.

"I'm sorry?"

"About the you-know-what."

"What you-know-what?"

"Don't you 'what you-know-what' me, white boy. How'd you know about my premonition?"

"You had a premonition, too?"

Mercedes' eyes went wide. "Start talking!" So Kurt did. By the time he was finished, all trace of her anger was gone, replaced by wonder and concern.

"I-I wasn't going to come tonight," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Sue Sylvester is as twisted as she is cruel, and I just knew any place run by her would be messed up." Kurt nodded slightly, encouraging her to continue. "But then I had a dream, about two hours ago, I guess. I was standing outside Club Wilde. I saw the rope line and the club facade – everything, down to the tiniest detail, even though it's opening night so I couldn't possibly have been here before. And then I heard screaming coming from inside the club. Suddenly I was inside, and there was smoke everywhere. But people were shouting 'Murder' instead of 'Fire'. I heard the screaming again. It was just one voice." She looked sideways at Kurt. "A very high, piercing voice. I thought... I just assumed it was a woman, but..." She shook her head to clear it. "Anyway, the smoke lifted and the screaming stopped, but now the club was dark inside. I heard a faint sobbing noise and I followed it to the dance floor, but there was no music. People were just standing around. I could just make out one man kneeling on the floor, cradling another in his arms."

She stopped abruptly, took a deep breath and steeled herself to go on. Kurt's eyes were getting moist with emotion as he listened. "In my dream, I knew the other man was dead. Just when the crying man turned to me, I woke up. My heart was racing, and I felt... well, it didn't make any sense, but I've never felt more strongly about anything in my life as I did that I __had__ to come here tonight." She grabbed his hands and squeezed hard, as she stared helplessly into his wide, teary eyes. "And now that I've met you, I think you're the reason I'm here. I...I guess somehow I'm supposed to help you."

"You've already –"

But Kurt didn't get to finish telling her how grateful he was that she'd gotten him into the club, because just then a series of trumpets blared. People began streaming into the theater. The more expensively dressed filled the boxes, while everyone else scrambled into regular seats. When the theater was full, the trumpets sounded again, and Sue stepped to the railing of the center opera box, which was elaborately decorated on the front with gilt statues of scenes from the __Kama sutra__ (although Kurt would probably blush furiously and deny knowing that if asked). She had changed her outfit, and was now wearing a long, white draping toga, bordered in purple. She had a singlet on her forehead, covered in grape leaves and looked every inch the ersatz Roman emperor from __Caligula__.

Sue regally held up one hand for silence.

The people continued to chatter away with their neighbors.

Sue's stance turned belligerent and she brought the bullhorn to her lips. "SHADDUP!"

That did it.

"Welcome to Club Wilde's inaugural night. I would thank you all for coming," she said confidently, "but since tonight is probably the highlight of your meaningless, insignificant earthworm lives, I think a little worship of your Overload is in order. And all hail Dis, god of the Underworld and the inspiration for Club Wilde." She glared around the entire theater. "Dis was a crack shot with a bow and arrow and so is one Sue Sylvester, so don't even think about spitting or hurling rotten produce at anyone but the sacrifices."

As Sue continued to put the fear of … __Sue__ into the audience, workers bustled down below, unrolling a thick rubber mat that covered the entire stage floor, and completely encircling it with a tall steel cage.

She paused dramatically. No one breathed. "BRING OUT THE SACRIFICES."

The trumpets blared loudly, and a bare-chested man wearing an executioner's hood and hefting a double broad axe in one hand walked to the center of the stage, leading a small group of downcast men, chained together and dressed only in tight biker shorts that left absolutely __nothing __to the imagination. The crowd cheered and jeered at the men, while the stagehands (or were they roadies?) continued to haul out strange items - a giant covered vat, several opaque suitcases, ladders, ropes, a glass booth, and on and on until the stage was littered like an obstacle course. The chained men were forced to space out and parade like human cattle in a circle around the perimeter of the platform. Along with everyone else in the theater, Kurt curiously scanned the tall/short/fat/thin/muscular/puny forms below until his eyes fell on one particularly well-built specimen and his throat went dry. A wave of nausea swept over him.

"Dave?"


	16. Off With Their Heads!

****Author's Note: ****A mild spoiler for the chapter below: it features a Frank Sinatra torch song that would be perfect for a certain jock-turned-accountant (I couldn't resist).

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Chapter 16: Off With Their Heads!<strong>**

Whenever Kurt got excited or anxious, his naturally high voice entered the stratosphere. It was up there now, but even so Kurt couldn't make himself heard above the general roar of the audience as he shouted desperately, "Dave! Dave! I'm here! I'm here, Dave!" over and over again.

The executioner unchained the men and lined them up in a semi-circle facing Mistress-now-Empress Sue. She held her hand up once again and this time the crowd obediently silenced.

"You are all here for one reason," she scowled ominously to the sacrifices. "You crossed Sue Sylvester. And to quote a lesser god, 'vengeance is mine'. There is only one rule in the Arena – amuse me, or suffer the consequences. My judging will be arbitrary, capricious, inconsistent and wholly unfair. We'll start with chicken legs there on the left."

The tall, scrawny man at the end of the line scurried to center stage and, shielding his eyes from the bright spotlights, tried to look up at the center box. "Once again, Ms. Sylvester, I am deeply sorry for scratching your Le Car. I curse the moment I swerved to avoid that baby carriage."

He stood there cringing, clearly hoping for a reprieve, but the audience started chanting, "Perform! Perform! Perform!" and Sue stood like a rocky cliff side, waiting impatiently for a ship to dash itself upon her and sink into oblivion, drowning all hands.

The man shivered, either from fear or cold (or both, given that speedo shorts aren't exactly warm) and reluctantly reached for a set of juggling pins. "I haven't done this in many years," he started by way of excuse, "so...um..." He began juggling the pins, flipping and spinning them in front of him. As he grew more at ease, he added balls alongside the pins. He began catching things behind his back, through his legs, juggling while balanced on one foot, juggling while hopping on one foot. His hands moved in a frenzied blur as he then added rings, plates and finally knives to form a swirling, schizophrenic kaleidoscope. The audience cheered wildly. That is, until Sue pulled out a BB gun and shattered the plates one by one as they spun in mid-air. Everything else came crashing down around the now cowering man, the knives impaling into the stage floor near his feet. The audience sat in stunned silence. All eyes looked towards the Empress. She stood with her arm straight out, thumb parallel to the ground. As the crowd held its breath, she slowly turned her thumb downward. The audience went wild with malicious glee.

"THE VAT," she intoned.

"No, no, please!" he tried, but the crowd jeered as the executioner dragged the juggler to one side. Stagehands uncover the large vat, which was filled to the brim with – Kurt did a serious double take. Cooked spaghetti and tomato sauce? Not just cooked, he noted with a shudder as the roadies grabbed the sacrifice by his ankles and shoulders and hoisted him sideways into the vat with a dull 'plop'. Overcooked.

The man sank into the mush, completely disappearing for a few moments before managing with difficulty to right himself . "You want out?" Sue smirked as the man strained to keep his head above the pasta. "Start eating."

She commanded obeisance from the next man, who was apparently there for overcharging on Sue's dry cleaning. "But removing rust from chain mail __does__ count as special handling!" he protested vigorously. But when no one would take pity on him, he was reduced to twirling flaming batons while tap dancing to __Let's Get Physical, Vogue ___and ___Sing.__ Fred Astaire could not have done it more effortlessly. Finally he stopped, panting and sweaty, his eyes full of hope.

The crowd again breathlessly awaited Her August Majesty's judgment. Again, the arm came out and the thumb turned downward.

"THE BOOTH," she commanded.

They pushed him roughly into the glass booth and pumped in hoards of buzzing flies. The man folded into himself and crouched down, torn at any given second between protecting his ears and protecting his eyes. Whenever it became too much, he screamed, and then choked on the flies he inadvertently swallowed. "Quit complaining," Sue taunted. "Insects are protein."

Kurt and Mercedes were horrified to witness such twisted cruelty, but the crowd's blood was up and they roared for more.

The man who tried impressions of famous people... well, he really ought not to have tried. He ended up in front of the Perpetual Spitball Machine. When the shaggy-haired, trouty-mouthed blonde recited poetry in Na'vi, the crowd boo'd nonstop and even Kurt was sorely tempted to join in because, really, who wants to hear that shit? Sue said 'Fish-Lips' was obviously destined to die alone and let him go.

And then it was Dave's turn. Kurt gripped Mercedes' hand tightly and held his breath. As far as Kurt knew, Dave had no talent, unless you count an affinity for contact sports and being able to compute Pi to the 100th decimal point. What disgusting, humiliating torture would he be made to endure?

Dave stood at center stage, arms at his sides, shifting his weight nervously, eyes on a spot three feet in front of him on the ground. Kurt felt a double pang, seeing him now and remembering how much Dave used to hate strangers looking at him, afraid they could see the gay just by staring hard enough.

"Are you going to apologize?" Sue demanded through the bullhorn.

Dave's head snapped up, glaring daggers out past the spotlights at where he knew Sue must be sitting. He shifted his weight again, but this time he looked like he was getting ready to tackle someone. "Will that get this shit over with faster?" he snarled.

"No," she smirked coldly. "But I could use a good grovel to flush the sound of that Avatar crap out of my ears."

"Then fuck you!" Dave spat back. "Those punks stole that money and hurt my friend I don't know how bad and I'm not apologizing for _squat_. Trust me, if the cops hadn't been too chicken-shit to come in here I'd never have crashed this psycho club."

Dave clenched and raised his fists, which got his well-developed arm muscles working in a way that shot a bolt of warmth through Kurt's body. Dave was big, buff and fully on display in those tight spandex shorts. Seeing so much of Dave's bare body – it brought back memories, intimate memories, that demanded some of Kurt's attention despite his efforts to focus on Dave in the here and now. Well, no, not __efforts___._ Drinking in every visible inch of Dave's physique was pretty damn effortless. Imagining what the back part of him looked like took a little concentration, but not mu–

"Entertain me, Donkey Kong!" Sue bellowed, jarring Kurt from his reverie. "Or I release the hounds."

Dave shook his head defiantly, but the crowd had turned against him and was chanting, "Perform! Perform! Perform!" again. Dave tensed, as if each wave of shouting was a body blow he had to withstand. A couple of times he opened his mouth to speak, but the crowd refused to quiet. Dave began heaving in rage. He grabbed one of the manacle chains that littered the stage and raked it back and forth across the cage bars, sending a sharp, deafening metallic __ET-ET-ET-ET-ET-ET-ET__echoing through the theater.

That did it.

Amidst his worry, Kurt felt a tingling between his legs. He'd forgotten how commanding Dave could be. And how hot he looked when he was angry.

Dave took several deep breaths to calm himself as the crowd waited expectantly. "Okay you sick assholes. I'm gonna sing something." That took Kurt by surprise. He'd never heard Dave sing, or even hum. They had always been from two different worlds – Kurt's filled with melodies and harmonies, Dave's with silent numbers and equations. Opposites attracting. "And you can boo and hiss all you want, I don't give a shit. I'm singing this for my friend, not for you."

Sue looked surprised. "That gutless Herman Munster who ran off and left you here?"

Dave looked vaguely horrified."No!" He blushed awkwardly, which made him look boyish and vulnerable. "N-no, not him. Someone else. Someone..." His blush deepened as his voice trailed off.

The crowd was intrigued. So was Kurt, who couldn't help thinking Dave looked ridiculously adorable when he blushed. But Dave refused to elaborate. He simply cleared his throat and began.

****¶ In the wee small hours of the morning, when the whole wide world is fast asleep, ¶****

Kurt gasped. Dave could sing! A crooning baritone, just like in his dream. Sure, his voice was little shaky, but whose wouldn't be in front of a hostile crowd of sex freaks eager to see him fail. Still, he was definitely hitting the notes. With some training, maybe work on relaxing the throat, balancing head and chest voice, building up diaphragmatic support...

****¶ You lie awake and dream about the guy, and never even think of counting sheep. ¶****

_Guy_? When Sinatra sang it, he dreamed about the "girl." So Dave was altering the lyrics deliberately, singing with a specific man in mind.

****¶ When your lonely heart has learned its lesson, ¶****

Yeah, he definitely needed to work on breathing control. The phrasing was all messed up. But watching that impressive chest rise and fall every few notes was still a treat. And the emotion in his tone and his eyes was solid, conveying sorrow and regret. More than solid, it was honest. It was... raw. Dave __was __lonely. He genuinely, achingly missed this guy.

****¶ You'd be his, if only he would call. ¶****

More deliberate pronoun switching. So who was he, Kurt wondered, this supposedly great guy Dave was pining for? Another delicate twink, or some manly __Spartacus__type? Why wasn't Mr. Wonderful at the bar with Dave? Where the hell was he now, when Dave so desperately needed help? Had he broken Dave's heart? Or had Dave driven him away, just like he drove Kurt away, by refusing to love in the open?

****¶ In the wee small hours of the morning, that's the time you miss him most of all. ¶****

Since he had been singing __a cappella___,_ when Dave stopped all sound in the arena stopped. The crowd sat mute, fidgeting slightly, as if afraid to indicate its feelings before Sue passed judgment. Her August Majesty held out her arm, but the thumb turned neither up nor down.

"Who was that song for?" she demanded sharply, her face an unreadable mask.

"None of your fucking business," Dave muttered, wiping angrily at his eyes.

Sue grinned evilly. "Thank you." And turned her thumb downward.

Kurt and Mercedes shot to their feet. "NO!" they cried in unison.

"No? NO?" Sue bellowed, swiftly searching the crowd. "Who dares – why, Ms. Jones!" Sue smiled broadly, which Kurt found more unnerving than her glare. "What interest could you possibly have in this troll?"

Mercedes crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. "What do you want, Sue?" she snapped impatiently. "Just tell me what you want for him."

"First Lady Face, now Cro-Magnon Man. Making a collection of Nature's practical jokes, are we?" Sue sneered.

Mercedes was a stone. "I know you won't just let him go, so what exorbitant price do you want for him?" she repeated coldly.

Sue pursed her lips and considered, while Kurt's heart held its breath. At last she said, "My dear Mercedes, I'm not unreasonable. I'm not heartless, either. I thought I was but my doctor insists that's physically impossible." She frowned, apparently still not sure she believed her doctor. "What I want is this: I star in your next music video."

Mercedes nodded. "And?"

"You make three promotional commercials for Club Wilde, which I write and direct."

Kurt grabbed the singer's arm. "Mercedes, no! Being spokesperson for this place will ruin your career. We'll... we'll figure something else out."

To Kurt's surprise, Mercedes reached up to gently cup his cheek. She beamed into his liquid eyes the warmest, most serene smile he had ever seen. "It's okay, Kurt. __For this cause came I unto this hour,___"_ she quoted. And Kurt Hummel, confirmed atheist, was convinced he beheld an angel.

The angel morphed back into a mega-watt star, complete with killer arched eyebrow and bitch-diva stance, as she turned to face Sue again. "_And?_"

"You get me a brunch with Madonna."

Mercedes paused dramatically, seeming to ponder her options, the whole audience hanging on her next words. Kurt had to admire her skill – the woman knew how to milk a moment. "Done, done, and even I don't have that kind of pull," she said at last. "So, two out of three?"

Sue nodded."Two out of three." She motioned to the executioner to lead Dave off stage. "You!" she growled at the next man (who was also the last man). "Do you have anyone coming to ransom you?"

"I-I d-don't think so," the man said mournfully, hanging his head.

"Good! I wouldn't want all that crazy glue to go to waste."


	17. Shut Up and Kiss Me

****Chapter 17: Shut Up and Kiss Me****

Kurt watched sometime-hunchback Will/Igor lead Dave from the arena, and then threw his arms around Mercedes. "Oh, Ms. Jones! Mercedes! I can't thank you enough. I'm just sorry you had to give in to Sue's demands."

Mercedes hugged him back just as fiercely. "Don't you worry about me," she said confidently. "Sue may be a mean, callous, petty monster, but she's also a shrewd business woman. Sex sells and sex scandal sells even more. This arrangement will end up being good for both of us." She pulled back from the hug and playfully shook him by the shoulders. "Now go be with your man."

Kurt gave her another quick hug and headed for the door. "But Kurt," she added gravely, "stay away from the dance floor, okay?"

Kurt nodded and dashed frantically into the corridor, going only a few yards in blind haste before running smack into Dave's solid bare chest, throwing both men off balance. Will/Igor grabbed Dave's arm to steady him while Kurt staggered back a few feet.

"Kurt?"

Dave watched, bewildered, as Kurt stormed over, bitch-face at level 10, and yanked Will's hand off with surprising force. "Go away!" he snapped

The man hesitated. "I'm thuppothed to get a retheipt ..." he began.

"NOW!" Kurt screamed in his face, sharp enough to cut glass.

He didn't even wait for Will/Igor to walk or hobble or whatever away, just gripped Dave's hand, interlacing their fingers, and began practically running down the dimly lit hall in the opposite direction, his only thought to get Dave someplace safe as quickly as possible.

"Slow down, slow down," Dave gasped, tugging gently to ease Kurt off his rapid pace. "How did you get here? Why aren't you in the hospital being treated for concussion?"

"I never went to the hospital, I had to find you," Kurt called over his shoulder, still moving them forward. The corridor ended at a T-juncture, and Kurt had to decide – left towards the thumping music, which meant the exit and escape from this madhouse but also the dance floor, or right through imposing black lacquer double doors towards silence. He pulled Dave through the double doors, only vaguely registering that the Mother-of-Pearl inlay spelled out "Pleasure Rooms."

They found themselves in a large, semi-circular space, reminiscent of a fancy hotel lobby, with numbered doors set at intervals along the sweeping curve of the wall. The whole area was completely silent. Kurt and Dave went down the line nearest to farthest, opening doors, looking for an empty room.

Room 1 looked like a penthouse apartment overlooking a fake nighttime cityscape outside the 'windows'. Two women dressed like Las Vegas showgirls were taking turns giving lap dances to a Hugh Heffner-wannabe while New Orleans jazz played in the background.

"Oh! Sorry!" Kurt called, quickly shutting the door. Silence fell like a blanket on the lobby once again. Apparently the rooms were sound proofed.

Room 2 looked more like a hippie opium den, complete with Pink Floyd soundtrack. "Double jointed, I guess," Kurt grinned nervously at Dave after he'd shut the door on the gay couple inside. He was having a hard enough time not getting...well... __hard___,_ being so close to Dave while the man was practically naked and smelling strongly of musky sweat, and these peep-show tableaux of kinky sex were __not__ helping. Nevertheless, Kurt tried to stay calm and breath evenly as they continued down the row, opening and closing doors, both men fascinated, in a horrified, mortified sort of way, by the elaborate, usually __loud__ scenes playing out behind each one.

Room 3 – Dracula's Castle. "Uh-oh, that's gonna leave a scar," Dave quipped.

Room 4 – Leather and Lace. "He must do a lot of yoga."

Room 5 – Jungle Fever. "That's one hell of a groupon!"

Room 6 – Disney. "A waste of good marshmallows, if you ask me," Dave shook his head in mock-dismay.

Room 7 – Bondage 101. "God, I hope they washed that thing first," Kurt giggled and Dave gave him a playful smack on the arm.

Kurt had basically given up hope when they went to open the door of the last room, number 8, Arabian Nights. But it was... empty? Yes, miraculously empty! The space was done up like a romance novel version of a Bedouin tent – pillows and cushions covered in rich browns, earthy reds and muted greens littered the carpeted space. The walls were draped in heavy batik cloth, and candle-lit Moorish lanterns hung from the ceiling. It reminded Kurt vaguely of Marlene Dietrich and Gary Cooper's love nest in __Morocco___._ The light was soft, the bed was huge, and the sheets were silk. A few ... supplies and accessories were laid out discretely on the bedside table. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed all night, including the plate of figs and the unopened bottle of champagne sitting in a bucket of now-melted ice.

Dave glanced around the room from the doorway. "Looks like this couple was a no show."

"Well, it's ours now." Kurt strode past Dave and threw himself belly first on the bed, burying his head in the sinfully luxurious pillows. "Possession is nine-tenths of the law, and after the night I've had, Fate owes me the other one-tenth, too."

Dave laughed, reminding Kurt how much he loved that sound. "You and me both." Dave sat on the edge of the bed, a careful distance away from Kurt's prone form, and stared at the shadows on the wall. Neither moved or said a word for several minutes, content just to be together in a quiet, safe place.

Eventually, Dave turned his head to look at Kurt in his black and gray ensemble and snickered. "From flannel to leather. Leave it to you to change outfits during a night like this."

"There's __never__ been a night like this," Kurt replied, his voice muffled by the pillows. "And this is outfit number three, believe it or not." Sighing deeply, he flipped over onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows.

"How's your head?" Dave's voice was soft like the candlelight.

Kurt locked eyes with him. "Can I ask you something?" Kurt's voice was thick like the air between them.

Dave's gaze intensified. "You can ask me anything."

Kurt took a deep breath and sat up, careful to keep a discrete distance between them. "Who was that song for? Who were you thinking of?"

Dave chuckled lightly. "The one that got away." Kurt tensed. "The most talented, irritating, patient, vain, understanding, bossy, passionate, beautiful man I've ever met."

"Who?" Kurt trembled slightly, afraid to hear the answer.

Dave laughed lightly again. "You're gonna make me say it, aren't you?" He grinned that broad grin from long ago, and all Kurt could think of for several seconds was the warm touches he remembered. Of the softness of Dave's lips and the hint of stubble against Kurt's jaw. Kurt lowered his eyes, just in case the answer wasn't the one he wanted. Dave's hand closed over Kurt's, squeezing, gentle and warm. "_You_, Kurt Hummel, you shameless compliment whore."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Kurt said with absolute sincerity as he turned and put his free hand to Dave's cheek. He waited for the panicked hitch in Dave's breath. The hesitation, the uncertainty, the _fear_ that had always, always been there when they touched, sometimes on the surface, sometimes deeper down but still tangible. Kurt waited for it, but it never came.

What he got was a gentle caress as Dave's hand cradled one side of Kurt's face, mirroring his own hand. Their eyes met and all the desperation, the frenzy of the night, poured through Kurt like burning oil. In a few short hours, he'd seen up close and personal what a crazy, scary, unpredictable place the world really is. But Dave was safe and he was with him, here in this strangely alluring room. This was Kurt's chance to banish the nightmare, and maybe regain something he wished he'd never lost, and he surged forward to take it.

"I've missed you, too," Dave murmured in a daze when Kurt finally let him come up for air.

Kurt dangled his arms playfully over Dave's shoulders, grinning with abandon, eyes flicking between Dave's eyes and Dave's mouth and Dave's chest, like a kid in a candy store, uncertain which particular intimacy he wanted the most and selfishly wanting them all.

"Can I ask you something?" Dave whispered tentatively.

Kurt smiled serenely. "Anything."

Dave hesitated a moment and furrowed his brow. "What the hell is going on?"

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Author's Note: <strong>**The Arabian Nights room is meant to resemble how Kurt decorated his bedroom in the episode __Theatricality___._ I figured he deserved some quality time with Dave in a room he obviously liked.


	18. Full Frontal Nudity

****Chapter 18: Full Frontal Nudity****

Kurt avoided Dave's gaze. Should he tell about the premonition and break this wonderful, blissful spell? Maybe it wasn't necessary? Dave was here with him, safe and sound. But that's the exact same thing you thought a few hours ago, at the bar, he reminded himself, and look how Fate blew that all to hell!

"Are you in some kind of trouble?"

Kurt started and his eyes went wide. "No! Nothing like that. I'm just ... I'm not really sure how to say this."

"Because whatever it is I'll help you, you know that, right?"

Kurt reached down and stroked Dave's cheek, a gentle, non-sexual caress. The caress of an old friend."That means a lot to me, Dave, it really does." He sighed heavily. "But this is more of a 'help me help you' situation."

When Kurt fell silent again, Dave just waited. For an indeterminate period of time, Kurt got deliberately lost in his warm hazel eyes. He'd been so panicked and the night had been so crazy. It was very hard to believe it was finally okay to let his guard down and relax. Was Fate finally through fucking with them?

He managed to make his voice sound mostly normal. "What time do you think it is?"

That was obviously not what Dave expected Kurt to say. "Uh, around 6 maybe? I had a watch," he grumbled, "but Sue's goons took it when they stripped me."

Kurt stared for a few moments at their intertwined hands, now resting in Dave's lap . "Six o'clock," he murmured and nodded slowly. "The sun will be coming up pretty soon. Then you'll be safe."

"Um, Kurt? I don't speak cryptic, so you'll have to translate."

Kurt sighed heavily. Moment of truth. "I know this is going to sound crazy, but hear me out. I went to bed early last night, and I had this dream ..."

* * *

><p>"Now before you say anything, I want to stress again that I have <em><em>not<em>__, repeat ___not___,_ lost my grip on reality in the six years since you saw me last."

Dave was quiet, thoughtfully digesting what Kurt had told him. "Some nut job called the East Village Ripper is going to attack me?"

"No, no one is going to hurt you! All the victims were street walkers, and we're obviously not..." Kurt's voice trailed off as he considered the black leather and spandex clothing currently available to them. "Okay, maybe it's not so obvious. But that doesn't matter. We just have to stay here and wait for the night to end."

"You really believe in this premonition stuff, don't you?"

"Let's just say I've had some experience with it before. Also, I refuse to believe I suffered through Mistress Sue and those other bizarre encounters for no reason."

Dave grinned mischievously. "About that, let me see if I've got this right. You hacked my Facebook account, and then took the taxi from hell to my old address." Kurt nodded. "And then a gay cougar was trying to hit on you when the bodega got held up by the same jerks who robbed Finn."

"And my fabulous Kurt-to-the-Rescue outfit, which you would have __loved___,_ by the way, got ruined."

"So is that when your hair –"

Kurt waived a hand in protest. "I refuse to discuss the current state of my __coiffure___,_ but yes, it's related."

Dave couldn't help grinning at that. "And a pair of paranoid lesbians took you in and Cardinal Richelieu – "

"Lord Tubbington."

"Right, Lord Tubbington held a cat séance, where he told you I was at Finn's."

"And he confirmed that my premonition was genuine."

"The cat did?"

"Mm-hm."

"The _cat_?"

Kurt sat up straighter. "Yes, that's right," he said defiantly, daring, just __daring__Dave to question the wisdom of Lord Tubbington.

Dave smirked but let it go. "So you sashayed over to the bar just in time to trounce Rachel at karaoke and show everyone that you're as talented as you are gorgeous." Kurt blushed pink and tried to stop his heart from jumping up and down and turning somersaults.

An undertone of anger crept into Dave's voice. "And then instead of getting you to a hospital like I fucking __told__him to, Jesse just gave you better fitting clothes and sent you off alone to track me down."

"But it all worked out," Kurt cut in, "because I charmed an R&B diva into throwing away her career to ransom you, and here we are!" Kurt figured there was no need to bog down the story with aborted threesomes and misadventures in fetish prostitution.

"And we just have to stay here for another 30 minutes or so, until sun up?" Kurt nodded. "So," Dave caught him by the arms and pulled them both down sideways on the bed, facing each other, "what should we do while we're waiting?" His lustful eyes bored into Kurt's.

Kurt tilted his head to the side and thought for a moment. "The new Vogue just came out."

Dave rolled over, now pinning Kurt under him. "No fucking way!" he growled. "You are __not__ talking fashion to me when there are so much more interesting things for those lips to do."

Kurt waited, and waited, and then Dave dipped his head and kissed him. Kurt closed his eyes and felt the last traces of tension bleed out of his shoulders. He let his hands play over Dave's muscles, reveling in all that strength all around him. In return, Kurt shivered a little as his lover's mouth and hands ran over him, squeezing and caressing every inch within reach. The larger man brought a hand up to brush the bangs out of Kurt's eyes.

As he stared at that rugged, handsome face, it took everything Kurt had to bite back the "I love you" he so longed to say. It would be too much, too soon, too suddenly. So instead Kurt asked cautiously, "After you came out, why didn't you ever get in touch with me?"

Dave grimaced. "You're career was going great, you were on that TV show. And who was I? This boring accountant. This nobody who disrespected you and hurt you after you had been so patient and supportive. I'll never forget when you left – you called me a coward. No, Kurt, it was true. I __was__ a fucking coward. Even after I joined _Dignity_, it took a whole other year before I could really accept being gay. I mean, I'm still not out to my family. And you were always so brave. You've lived your life so honestly. Why would someone like you want to be around someone like me ever again?"

Kurt's eyes were huge and glistening as he listened to Dave berate himself. He moved gradually, inch by inch up Dave's body until he was gazing down on that unhappy face. Oh, fuck it. After all he'd been through on this long, crazy night and just... fuck it!

"I love you." Absolute silence. Oh shit. "Dave?" Dave just stared up at him, eyes wide. "Um, you could say something." More silence. In an instant, a switch in Kurt flipped and his hesitation turned to fury. "David Karofsky!" he snapped, smacking Dave's chest. "How come you never told me you could sing?"

Slowly but surely, a smile spread over Dave's face. "I didn't want to give you an inferiority complex." He threw his arms around the smaller man and laughed. Kurt could feel the deep rumble in his own chest as it pressed against him.

Any lingering worries Kurt might have had about Dave's feelings disappeared when his hand snaked up the actor's back and pulled him down to bring their lips together again.

Dave kissed along his neck, his shoulder, his chest. Kurt's eyelids fluttered when Dave's lips brushed his sternum. He could feel himself getting hard again. "You're forgiven," he whispered breathlessly.

"I'll bet we still have some time before the sun comes up," Dave murmured as he rolled Kurt over. "Let me thank you properly for saving me."

Dave set the rhythm and Kurt moved with him until nothing existed but the two of them, intertwined on the bed. Kurt was the puzzle, and Dave was the missing piece being slotted where it was always meant to be, even though Kurt hadn't realized the piece had been missing all this time. Skin on skin, they breathed together, Dave holding him like they had forever. And maybe, this time, they did.


	19. The Northwest Passage

****Chapter 19: The Northwest Passage****

Dreams are peculiar things. One might even go so far as to say dreams are devious. Lying in wait, striking when we are at our most vulnerable, psyches laid bare. Exposing our deepest desires, exploiting our darkest fears. Compulsions, perversions, grotesques. The impossible and illogical made rational and real. Hospitals, dance clubs, a deserted New York street just after sunrise – a nightmare can lurk undetected in any landscape.

But Kurt wasn't thinking about any of that as he exited the Arabian Nights boudoir with Dave at his side. He didn't know that it was precisely 6:47 AM, but he was certain the sun was up. And Dave was – no, his __boyfriend___,_ the man who made his heart dance as it had not danced even six years before – was safe. First order of business, some clothing for Dave so they could get away from this madhouse. Second order of business, breakfast, with lots and lots of strong coffee. Third order of business, the rest of their lives together.

As they retraced their steps toward the arena, a crouching tumble of black and gray rags came into view up ahead.

"Will!" Kurt called. The pseudo-hunchback stopped in mid-hobble and half-turned. "Thank goodness! My friend nee– " Kurt began, and the color drained from Will's face.

"Sorry, can't help you," he said in the softest, most sincere and concerned tone. Kurt furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to protest. "Doesn't matter what it is," Will hurried on, "I can't help you. When I didn't get that receipt Sue threatened me with rendition and she's pretty tight with the Algerian police so I just can't take the risk. Sorry!" He shrugged as best he could in that bent-over position and shambled away, leaving Kurt and Dave gaping in disbelief.

Then Dave shivered slightly. Kurt rubbed up and down Dave's bare arms briskly, his tired brain like a run-down car engine struggling to turn over. After a few minutes of silent thinking, Kurt smiled mischievously and placed a light kiss on Dave's lips. "I have an idea."

* * *

><p>They moved towards one of the lounge areas, just off the dance floor. Kurt waited a few moments for his eyes to get accustomed to the low, reddish light. He couldn't believe the place was still packed with patrons – drinking, smoking, gyrating and … doing other stuff, but it was a much-need lucky break for them.<p>

Music from the adjacent dance floor thumped insistently, trembling the walls, but here in the lounge people seemed more interested in satisfying their various kinks. Kurt scanned the room hopefully. Fellatio ... a little dom/sub action … orgy … hand job … what the– oh, beginner's orgy. He began to panic. And then he spotted what he needed – men and women hanging by the bar, wallflowers pounding back beer after beer, shot after shot, trying to get up their nerve to join the circus.

He maneuvered Dave to an empty armchair out of sight from the bar, but kept him standing while Kurt quickly ran an all-business appraising eye over his entire body. "36 pants, 44 shirt," he announced to no one in particular. He cocked his head to the side and thought a moment. "Better make that 44 long. Stay here," he said, putting his hands on Dave's shoulders and pushing him down into the chair. "Don't move from this spot."

"What are – "

"I'll be right back." He started off and then stopped abruptly. Pivoting smoothly on his heel, he looked down at Dave's feet. "11 ½ wide," he muttered, nodding to himself. And then it was showtime.

Bitch-face at the ready, Kurt scanned every available physique not engaged in a perverse sexual act and then zeroed in on one man, and then a second. Marching smartly up to the first he confirmed, yep, the right size above the waist. Dark grey – that will look okay.

"Clothing tax! Shirt!" he snapped, holding out his arm, palm upwards and looking unutterably bored, as if this is what he did, all day, every day, 365 days a year. The somewhat inebriated man just blinked at him and swayed slightly. Kurt made a great show of rolling his eyes and sighing heavily. "Fine! Let's try this again. You" he pointed to the man with his left hand "have been selected" he pointed his right hand in the same direction "to pay" Kurt mimed dropping coins into his palm "the Club Wilde" he gestured broadly to the room around them "clothing tax" he tugged on the man's sleeve. Hmm, pima cotton. Not too shabby. "Now give. Me. Your. Shirt!"

The man's lips parted, but he clearly didn't know what to say. He looked helplessly at his companions. Kurt huffed with indignation. "Or shall I go back and tell Mistress Sue the house rules are being ignored? She's always happy to have one more sacrifice."

The man paled and suddenly became several degrees more sober. His hands flew to the placket and he swiftly unbuttoned the shirt and tore if off as though it were on fire.

Kurt debated – was it more in-character for the Club Wilde tax collector to thank the patron or not to thank the patron? Not to thank, he decided, turning sharply and closing in on the second man. This one was standing near enough to have seen and heard the first exchange, so when Kurt barked, "You! Clothing tax! Pants! __Now!"__the fellow undid his belt without hesitation and quickly scrambled out of his khakis.

Moving back to where Dave was waiting, Kurt allowed himself a smug smile. One scary bitch indeed!

He unceremoniously dumped the clothes in Dave's lap.

"How–"

But Kurt was already stalking cautiously around the two orgies currently underway, eyes darting back and forth sweeping the floor. Damn! Hard to see in this light. Those brown loafers might do...

"Ohh"

"Ooooh"

"Ahhh"

"Mmmm"

He-he. __Kurt Hummel – Footware Ninja!__

* * *

><p>Dave looked at the shoes and frowned. "Tassels?"<p>

"Just shut up and put them on!" Kurt snapped, trying to look stern as he loom over Dave, eyes narrow and arms akimbo.

Dave grinned and Kurt couldn't help but grin back. Dave exhaled as he stood, now fully dressed. "Much better." He rubbed his right hand lightly over the sleeve of his left forearm. "Hey, this shirt feels great!"

Kurt sniffed and lifted his chin. "I do my best." He held out his hand and Dave took it without hesitation. They both smiled shyly, thinking the other man looked ridiculously adorable at that moment.

They were making some headway through the still-frenetic dance floor when suddenly an unnaturally wide figure blocked their path. There stood Sue Sylvester, a massive white Marie Antoinette wig her head, swathed in a silk, lace and ribbon bestrewn 18th century French noblewoman's gown, royal blue, ruthlessly corseted to the waist and then ballooning out nearly a foot beyond her hips. In truth, Kurt thought the costume was spectacular. But her face! __Heavy__ pale foundation covered her entire face, with a large fake beauty mark on her cheek and red rouge smeared thickly across her lips. Kurt's stomach did a quick somersault because her mouth reminded him of the gash along Dave's throat in his dream. Which wasn't going to happen, because the night was over.

Sue skewered them both with a sharp gaze. "I saw your little ruse just now." Kurt paled, but Sue's grotesquely painted mouth twisted up in a smirk. "Join forces with me," she said in what Kurt supposed passed for her 'friendly' voice. "I'm offering you a job. You're clearly a man who knows how to get things done. My new celebrity spokesperson likes you, Becky thinks you're hot, and I find your situational morality appealing. You're wasted on that sudsy melodrama anyway, Mr. Hummel." Kurt gasped. "Yes, I know you're a second-rate actor playing a one-dimensional character on a third-rate soap." When Kurt continued to look confused she added, "You left DNA all over that room. By the way, you'll be pleased to know you both have a clean record with INTERPOL."

Kurt had met far too many unconventional people, had far too much excitement for one night, and wanted nothing more than to go home with his rediscovered lover. But every instinct for self-preservation was warning him not to reject this imperious woman out of hand.

"Mistress Sue, I'm flattered by your offer," he said humbly, choosing his words with care. "But I dare not make this momentous decision while my judgment is clouded by the presence of such greatness. May I have a few days to consider?"

Sue nodded slowly. "You know, Lady Face, I took you for a spineless androgynous tart, but you've got some real gumption and I respect that. So I'll give you 24 hours. I look forward to your answer, which I hope will be positive. Incidentally, did you know that among the classic poisons of ancient Greece, thallium is the least well-known but also the hardest to detect post mortem? Consider that your fun fact of the day." With that she snapped her hand fan open, fluttered it a bit before her face, which held an expression of the utmost disdain, and glided away in a swish of hoop skirts.

Kurt face-palmed and shook his head. Now he was being blackmailed into changing careers? Un-be-lievable! Well, he'll deal with that later. Desperate to get out of there before something else bizarre happened, Kurt tugged Dave (who didn't need much urging) across the dance floor and out the exit. The cool morning air hit them like a rebirth, and they walked hand-in-hand down the near-deserted street.

Neither man spotted the eyes that were tracking their progress through the club, and neither noticed when the stocky figure to whom those eyes belonged slipped outside less than a minute later. A living nightmare creeping after them, closing in.

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Author's Note: <strong>**Sue's costume here is modeled on the villainess Marquise de Merteuil in __Dangerous Liaisons___,_ played to perfection by Glenn Close. I'll bet Sue could give the Marquise a run for her money. I know there wasn't much for Will to do in this story, but that's deliberate, in keeping with my strongly held opinion that he is generally clueless, useless and unhelpful when any of the _Glee_ kids on the show has a problem. I think this holds doubly true for Kurt.

If anyone is lurking out there and enjoying the story, I hope you'll consider leaving a review. They really make my day.

– Ella


	20. Crash and Burn

****Warning: ****This chapter contains moderate violence.

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Chapter 20: Crash and Burn<strong>**

Kurt and Dave, walking down the quiet street as light spilled into the city. They held hands in comfortable silence. After about a block, Kurt finally got his courage up to ask, "So can I buy you breakfast?"

"I'd like that," Dave smiled. "You still into that designer non-fat half-caf latte-chino stuff you used to drink?"

"Yeah," Kurt laughed, "but for the pleasure of your company, I will endure regular drip coffee, since I think that's all we're going to find down here. What time do you have to be at work?"

"Normally at 8:30, but I'm calling in sick. There's no way I'll be able to function today. Comfort food and then bed – that's today's agenda." Kurt just nodded thoughtfully. "How 'bout you?"

"I have a call for 2 PM, just a walk-on, really."

Dave looked off into the distance, feigning nonchalance. "You probably wanna go home after breakfast then..."

Kurt squeezed his hand, forcing Dave to turn towards him. "You're not getting rid of me that easily, Mr. Karofsky."

Dave's grin grew so big and so dopey, Kurt just wanted to kiss him again. "Good to know, Mr. Hummel."

They spotted a diner about half a block up and headed that way.

"Vaughn!"

Kurt turned sharply in surprise to see Officer Beiste jogging heavily towards them.

She threw an absentminded 'hi' at Dave and focused on Kurt. "Sorry to bother you while you're working." Kurt opened his mouth to protest but she continued, "Just checking everything's okay."

Kurt decided it was too complicated to explain who he really was. "Everything's fine, Officer. This is my friend Dave. He's not a client." Dave shot him a puzzled look. Kurt patted his arm reassuringly. "We were just going to get some breakfast." He gestured to the coffee shop a dozen yards away.

"Say, Officer," Dave spoke up. "Do you know if there's a pay phone around here?"

"Lots of pay phones, but the only one that works is two blocks over. I'll show you."

"You grab us a table, Kurt, and order blueberry pancakes for me. Or regular if they don't have blueberry. I'll be right back." Dave pressed a kiss to Kurt's temple, squeezed his hand and set off down the street with the policewoman.

Kurt headed towards the diner entrance, humming random notes to himself. A stocky man with thick glasses, reddish-blond hair and a rough beard was leaning against the building, picking his nails, but Kurt didn't notice him until he pushed off the wall.

"Hey." Even his voice was scruffy.

"Uh... hey."

Suddenly the bearded man was blocking his path, eyes roving all over Kurt's body. Kurt shifted uncomfortably and peered down the street, trying to will Dave and Officer Beiste back in sight.

"I'm Brad."

_O-kay?_

"You wanna go somewhere?"

Kurt looked back at the man blankly for a few seconds. "Go...? Oh! No. Thanks."

"What, my money's not good enough for you?"

"No, I'm not –" Kurt started to protest, but then he decided it wasn't worth his time. Who cares what misconceptions this guy had? "I'm with someone," he said with an airy, superior tone. "He's coming right back." I have __got__ to change clothes, Kurt thought as he strode past the man.

Suddenly a hand from behind clamped over his mouth, while an arm crossed his neck. Something was at his throat, something cold and hard, something metal that glinted in the pale morning light. Not pricking the flesh, just pressing firmly, demanding submission.

"Oh no, pretty boy," Brad rasped in his ear, "your john's just gonna have to find another whore to play with." Kurt tried to pull at the hand over his mouth. "Stop struggling or I'll gut you right here! Not a sound, got that?"

Kurt had no choice but to nod slightly and emit a muffled "msh." The hand that had been covering his mouth shifted to grab his hair, pulling his head back stiffly.

"Please," Kurt gasped tightly, trying hard not to move a single muscle in his throat. "Please, let me go! I'm not... I'm not a hooker."

"Right, you're a fucking choir boy," Brad replied, chuckling darkly. He dragged Kurt backwards into the ally, never loosening his grip on the countertenor's hair or lowering the knife from his throat. Kurt watching helplessly as the fragile safety of the main street receded. When they reached the back of the alley, Brad spun him around and slammed his chest up against the cold brick wall. The knife returned to his throat, and a hand began groping for the zipper on his pants.

"No!" Kurt whimpered. "Please don't do this!" The actor began to cry, although in his panic he didn't realize it.

"Fucking whores, flashing it all over town, teasing me every night." That and more Brad muttered, but Kurt couldn't really hear. His heart was pounding in his ears, the tears were flowing and all he could think was, __This isn't happening.__

"Stop squirming! Stupid bitch!" Brad growled, pressing the knife a little further into Kurt's skin. "I was gonna be nice to you but fuck that. You're just like the oth–"

Kurt never would recall clearly what happened next. He heard the bearded man yelp, and realized the weight pressing down on him and the cold steel at his throat were gone. There were grunts and scuffling sounds behind him, but Kurt didn't turn around. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed closer to the wall, trying to disappear into the brick, desperate to be in another reality.

A gravelly woman's voice rang out: "NYPD! DROP THE KNIFE OR I'LL SHOOT!"

And then a loud pop and two dull thuds.

"Vaughn! Vaughn, are you hurt? I'm calling an ambulance for your friend."

__I'm not Vaughn, Vaughn isn't real,__ Kurt thought distantly, and he turned to tell her so, but there was something on the ground. It was the man Brad, the East Village Ripper, laying there crumpled and unmoving. Kurt swiped away more tears. Something else was there, and red was leaking from it. Well, he simply wouldn't look. If he didn't look, it wouldn't be true.

But the horrible gurgling noises drew him forward, and then he was pressing, pressing on the wound. But the blood flowed in pulses through his fingers as Dave gasped and struggled, making strange clicking noises with his tongue.

"Don't leave me," Kurt whispered. It was all he could think to say.

But it seemed just a few seconds before the clicking noises ceased. A small part of Kurt's consciousness was aware of Officer Beiste calling for back-up, calling his name (although it wasn't his name). Kurt shuffled closer and gently lifted Dave's head onto his lap. He stroked Dave's hair. He caressed Dave's cheek. Just a dream. Any minute now, he'd wake up. Just a bad dream...

It was the ambulance sirens that finally shook Kurt from his stupor. He'd been looking down at the body, but now he actually __saw__ it. And that's when Kurt lost control. And screamed... and screamed... and screamed.

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Author's Note:<strong>** And now, dear Reader, you have a choice to make. Please read the next chapter CAREFULLY and proceed accordingly.


	21. Don't You Just Hate Cliffhangers?

****Author'******s****** Note:**** Hi everyone. I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to explain what comes next. And there's a spoiler in this author's note about Dave's fate, but not really. After all, there are only two choices.

Basically, this story has two endings. Some people objected that the original ending was not funny and zany enough, that the tone didn't fit with the rest of the story. They even went so far as to say the ending had 'ruined' the story for them. Obviously, as the author I want people to enjoy the story, and maybe even leave some ****reviews!****

So I've written a new, more amusing crack!fic ending (Two Out of Three Ain't Bad). At least, it's intended to be more wacky and amusing. Spoiler alert: Dave lives.

However, I still consider the original ending to be the true and honest ending for this story. So I'm posting that, too (How Glory Goes). Spoiler alert: Dave dies. Its also got amusing crack!fic parts, but if you don't like character death or pathos, ignore this chapter.

Is one ending "better" than the other? You'll have to tell me...

Ella


	22. Alternate Ending I: 2 Out of 3 Ain't Bad

****Two Out of Three Ain't Bad****

Kurt was desperate and hysterical by the time the paramedics reached them. Dave was neither moving nor making any sound. He hovered protectively over Dave's still form and refused to budge until Officer Beiste hooked her hands under his arm pits and hauled him away. His panic spiked when the paramedics blocked his view of Dave's face and he began to struggle in her arms.

"Settle down!" the policewoman bellowed, holding him so tightly she nearly crushed the air out of his chest. Then more softly, "They're going to help him, but you have to stay here and stay calm and let them do their job."

Kurt didn't really hear her. Mostly, he stopped struggling because he became fixated on the miles and miles of bandages being deployed, the flash of syringes, the hiss of a portable oxygen tank. Officer Beiste let him go and checked briefly on Brad, then shook her head in answer to a questioning look from one of the paramedics. Besides being a powerful woman, she was a damn good shot.

Once they'd secured Dave to a stretcher, Kurt rushed forward again, eyes watering and arms extended.

The senior paramedic blocked his path while the younger one wheeled Dave out of the alley and into the ambulance.

"Is he your friend?" the medic asked kindly.

"He's my boyfriend," he whispered instantly, half in wonder, half in dread. "We... Will he...?" He couldn't bear to say it.

"What's your name?"

"Kurt Hummel. And his name is David Karofsky." Officer Beiste cocked her head, shrugged, and scribbled discretely in her notebook.

"Okay, Kurt. I'm Carl. You can ride with us in the ambulance and you can talk to David, but I can't let you touch him. He's too unstable right now. Do you understand?" Kurt nodded. His throat was tight, his eyes stung, and he felt like he'd never be able to speak again.

* * *

><p>Kurt waited in the emergency room for hours. He dozed fitfully in a chair. He called Emma. He answered Officer Beiste's questions in monotone. He called his father in Ohio. He twisted and fidgeted in the chair. He called Dave's answering machine at work a few times, just to hear his voice.<p>

Finally a doctor approached. "Mr. Hummel? Your partner is a very lucky man. Two inches to the left and the knife would have entered his heart. As it is, the attacker punctured the left lung and it collapsed, but we've re-inflated it."

Kurt frowned and rubbed his forehead roughly. He was so stressed. He was so tired. "I...I don't understand what you're saying."

The doctor patted his arm gently and smiled. "He's going to make a full recovery."

Breath. Light. Sound and touch and taste and smell. All the senses Kurt was sure he'd lost along with Dave's life came back to him. The rush was overwhelming. Kurt fainted dead away.

* * *

><p>The <em>beep... beep... beep...<em> grew increasingly annoying as Kurt sluggishly regained consciousness.

"Hey, sleeping beauty."

Kurt turned his head where he lay on the hospital cot. He blinked a few times to make sure he was truly awake. There was Dave, tucked snugly in a wheel chair, trailing an IV pole, looking like hell but all in one piece.

Kurt jumped off the bed. "You're alive!" He wanted to throw his arms around him, but thought better of it at the last second – in light of Dave's recent surgery – and grasped his hand tightly instead.

"It's okay, Doc Corcoran says I just need to rest for a couple of weeks and I'll be fine. I'm glad that bastard didn't hurt you."

"We did it, we beat the premonition! You're alive!" Kurt felt giddy and triumphant. He wanted to jump up on a table and dance. He very nearly turned a pirouette. Still holding Dave's hand, he knelt by the wheelchair instead and gazed earnestly into his eyes. "And I'm never leaving you again. We're soul mates, Dave." Dave's mouth dropped open to form a little 'o'. "I know it sounds crazy after all these years, but this morning, hearing you sing, being with you again, I realized you are the only man I want." He gathered in a deep breath. "David Karofsky, I love you. Let's move in together."

Joy, pure unadulterated joy – that's all he felt. Dave seemed stunned into silence.

"Oh my god!" Kurt cried, springing to his feet. "There's so much to do! How big is you're apartment?" Dave hesitated. "I suppose you could move into my place, but it's not really large enough for two. Or we could both sublet and get a cozy two-bedroom in Brooklyn."

"Kurt," Dave began.

"Which I will be in charge of decorating," he declared grandly. "You may make suggestions, of course." Kurt started pacing in front of the wheel chair and tapping his chin. "Hmm, closet space is going to be critical." He stopped and looked sternly at Dave. "Do you still eat pizza and burgers and all that other greasy, fatty, unhealthy fast food? That's got to stop."

"Kurt -"

He waived his hand dismissively and resumed pacing. "Don't worry, I am an excellent cook, as you may remember. And when I say 'stop', I don't mean -"

"Kurt!"

Kurt turned to Dave with a radiant smile. "Yes, David?" he chirped, rocking gleefully on his heels.

Dave lowered his eyes. "I'm not moving in with you," he said softly into the floor.

Kurt blinked. "Oh!" Now he felt foolish. "You're right. We shouldn't rush things."

Dave looked up at him with an pained expression. "No. What I mean is, there is no 'we'."

Kurt went completely still but his smile didn't fade. "I don't understand," he said sweetly, with just a faint undercurrent of strain.

"Listen, I... God, this is hard to say." Dave winced as he shifted awkwardly in the chair. "You're great, Kurt. What I said in that weird club about you being the kindest, most beautiful man I've ever met, it was all true. But..." Kurt's smile began to fray around the edges. Dave heaved a great sigh. "But I don't want to be a couple."

"Um... okay. W-we can go slow, start with dating." His grin rallied. "You're a junior vice president now, so you can wine and dine me properly this time."

"No," Dave said again, more firmly this time. He huffed in frustration. "I'm not saying this right." He paused and frowned deeply while Kurt's whole world stopped and waited. "Okay. I'm just gonna put it out there – I've never slept with anyone but you. I was always too afraid to embrace that part of being gay, the physical part, with anyone else. And last night... this morning... whatever, it was... _really_ sweet."

Kurt's grin became a rictus. Sweet?

"But making love again and then nearly dying – it made me realize there are so many experiences... _sexual_ experiences... that I've never had. Sleeping with another bear, for example. Or, or visiting a glory hole. Hooking up in a bathhouse, grinding on a stranger in a club, maybe even trying a threesome. Jesse knows this guy - "

"Stop! I get the idea." _This isn't happening._

Dave look apologetic. "Anyway, that kind of stuff. And I can't do any of those things if I'm dating you. I know how strongly you feel about exclusivity and cheating, and I could never do that to you."

Kurt wanted to slap him. "But you said – " and he stopped.

Because Dave hadn't, had he? He _hadn't_ said 'I love you' back when Kurt confessed his feelings in Club Wilde. Kurt plunked down heavily on the cot in shock. Something inside his chest began to smolder. "So... " the feeling began to burn, sharp and bitter like liquid metal, every word spoken more contemptuously than the last. "So what you're saying is you want to be a _slut?_ "

Dave snorted in apparent amazement. "I don't mean to hurt you, Kurt. It's not something I really thought about before, but … yeah, I want to sleep around. See what's out there. Play the field. "

Kurt's smile was completely gone, hiding, in fact, cowering in fear of the murderous glare he was now sending Dave's way.

"S-sooo," Dave shrugged, "I guess that's it. Uh... thanks for trying to protect me." He held out his hand for a handshake. Kurt just looked at it with disdain. "Um, take care of yourself. And if you wanna hook up again sometime - "

Kurt stood up tall and shook his head imperiously. "Fuck you, Dave!" he spat. "If this is what you want you are an _imbecile_, because I am the best thing that will never happen to you." Inside him a holocaust was raging. "Hook up sometime?" he practically shouted. "_As if!_ This is _goodbye_, David Karofsky. From this moment on you are dead to me!"

Dave opened his mouth, then closed it again. He gave Kurt one last regretful look and turned his wheelchair around. Kurt watched him roll haltingly away, pulling the reluctant IV pole behind him down the diamond white corridor.

And then it hit him – the premonition had come true.

_Finis._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> After all the craziness that's come before, you didn't think I'd let them ride off into the sunset together, did you? Or did you?


	23. Alternate Ending II: How Glory Goes

****How Glory Goes****

Kurt was hysterical by the time the paramedics reached him. Dave was neither moving nor making any sound. When the word "hospital" penetrated Kurt's head fog, he hunched protectively over Dave, screaming "NO!" and "GET AWAY!" over and over, until one of the EMTs distracted him and Officer Beiste got close enough to grab him from behind and pull him back. The powerful woman held him still while another EMT injected him with a sedative. Staring uncomprehendingly as they laid Dave on a stretcher, he muttered "I want to wake up now" and collapsed.

* * *

><p>The <em>beep... beep... beep...<em> grew increasingly annoying as Kurt sluggishly regained consciousness. Scanning the hospital room, he pinpointed the source of the noise – a heart monitor hooked up to the patient in the next bed. Officer Beiste was sitting by the door, reading a romance novel and dabbing her eyes occasionally, completely ignoring the orderlies and nurses who bustled back and forth in the corridor. Some sixth sense, or maybe it was just police instinct, made her look up.

"Mr. Hummel?" Her voice was its usual low pitch as she came towards him, but much softer than he'd heard it the previous times.

"Yes?" Kurt blinked. "How–?"

"One of the doctors recognized you."

_beep...beep... beep…_

"I don't know why a successful actor like yourself was out prostituting himself last night, but we'll get into that later. Right now I need you to tell me the name of the man you were with."

"His name is David Karofsky. How is he?"

She scribbled the name down. "Do you know if Mr. Karofsky has family in the area?"

"No, his family lives in Ohio somewhere. Why?" As in: Why is she asking about Dave's family? Why won't she answer my question? Why is her voice so gentle? Kurt began to get anxious.

_beep... beep... beep..._

"How about the other man, the one who attacked you?" She checked her notebook. "Bradley Ellis. Did you know him?

"I tend not to socialize with people who want to rape and kill me!" he snapped, patience shredded. "Is Dave alright?"

"Mr. Hummel, I'm sorry to"

_No!_

"have to tell you that"

_nottruenottruenottruenottrue ..._

_beep... beep... beep..._

* * *

><p>It wasn't until the Karofsky family's pastor contacted Dave's priest in New York about arrangements that his parents learned Dave was gay. They didn't know what to do with that information, except file it away with the rest of their anger and grief and regrets. Only Finn, who had known Dave since junior high, made the trek to Ohio for the funeral. Whether rightly or wrongly, Kurt figured he wouldn't be welcome. Instead, he tried to write Mr. and Mrs. Karofsky, to let them know their son had been respected and loved, that he was a loyal and generous friend, a man who lived kindly and died bravely. But when he got to the part of the letter explaining that it was Kurt's fault Dave was gone, that <em>he<em> had been the killer's target and Dave died saving him, that Dave would never have been anywhere near that alley if not for Kurt, that's when Kurt broke down – on the first draft, and the second, and the third, before finally giving up the letter entirely. He sent flowers anonymously and made a sizable donation to Dignity U.S.A. in Dave's name.

Mercedes tracked him down through his agent before the evening news even went to commercial. She sat by him and held his right hand during the memorial service at Dave's church, while Emma held his left. The black diva's rendition of 'Amazing Grace' was transcendent, an experience no one at that service would ever forget.

Filing out of the little church with the rest, Kurt was accosted by a woman dressed like Amelia Earhart, complete with 1930s pilot's hat and goggles. His eyes were a little misty, but still he instantly recognized Sue Sylvester. She towered over them all.

"I came to give you this." She held out a small package. Kurt took it numbly. Sue looked him over thoughtfully and while her face was stony, there was no sneer in her voice when she said, "I'm sorry about your friend. There'll be a place for you in my organization when you're ready."

Kurt's phone was inside the packet, along with his wallet, intact except for the money. There was also a letter, written by someone with the penmanship of a six-year old.

_"Hey Dude,_

_Lauren and I were sorry to hear about your friend. Murder blows! Here's your stuff back. We kept the cash for our project, smuggling endangered species to Mistress Sue's private nature reserve. Right now we're doing a rush job on Amur Leopards from Russia, 'cuz they're, like, practically extinct, which totally sucks. And like they say, I'd rather burn something down than bitch and moan in the dark.* Come to think of it, I don't know what that means. Anyway, it was nice meeting you and maybe we'll see you around the club or something._

_Puck_

_P.S. - Lauren says she's sorry about busting your head open. Shit happens._

_P.P.S. - We named the newest leopard cub 'Dave'. Let me know if you want to visit him."_

Kurt tucked the letter in his wallet. Yeah, he forgave them. He forgave everyone, everyone but himself.

* * *

><p>"A-a-a-nd ... <em>action!"<em>

Kurt was fine, everything was fine. He was back at work and he was... managing. They'd finished the 'Vaughn's former pimp tries to blackmail him' scene, and now he just had to hold it together through the 'Vaughn confesses his shameful past to his comatose husband' scene. And then he could go home and not eat and not sleep and not answer his door or his phone.

The cameras were rolling. He perched on the edge of the fake hospital bed and took his TV husband's hand. Kurt's eyes glistened as he spoke in a near-whisper.

"I'm so sorry, August, I'm so sorry I lied to you." Kurt paused because it was hard to breathe. The set reminded him too much of the real hospital, which reminded him of the alley and all that came before.

And he _wasn't_ fine.

And he _wasn't_ managing.

And he knew this grey, empty feeling, this deadness inside, was no more nor less than what he deserved.

The next line in the script was 'Troy isn't my ex-boyfriend' but instead Kurt's eyes unfocused and he said in his own voice, "I miss you." Tears began to roll quietly down his cheeks. "I can't tell you how my heart hurts," his throat was tight, voice like ash, "knowing that it's all my fault." None of this was in the script, but he couldn't stop. Kurt was starting to cry. "P-please, please don't hate me!"

He dissolved in a sobbing, sniveling mess. Insensible to the world, he bent forward and buried his head in his 'husband's' lap and cried out a bottomless sorrow. And he didn't stop, even after Shelby yelled, "Cut! That was perfect."

* * *

><p>Kurt sighed heavily as he unlocked his apartment door. He actually felt a little better after his blubber-fest. Shelby said it was fine that he went off-script, because he'd acted the hell out of the scene. Yeah, acted. Sure.<p>

And now he was home. Alone. In his grey little bubble with his grey little thoughts. No one around to disappoint.

"Hi, Kurt!"

She was standing in his bedroom doorway.

"Brittany! Um, w-what are you doing here? In my apartment. Wearing my Orvis slippers."

He never did leave a note for her at the CD register in the Virgin Megastore, telling her he had failed. But Brittany apparently held no grudges. She just hugged him tightly, oblivious to his shock.

"Oh, I picked the locks. And I guess you forgot to set your trip-wire this morning, because I didn't find it. But I saw these super soft bootie-slippers in your closet and they just looked so comfy, I had to try them on." She took a few steps and twirled around. "It's like walking on newborn lambs!"

Kurt smiled (the first real one in three days). "I mean _why_ are you here?"

She stopped twisting and grew serious. "Lord Tubbington sent me. He has a message for you from the spirit world."

He stared at her in fear and wonder. But mostly fear.

"I didn't know what he wanted at first. He kept yowling and Santana swore he was just horny, but I knew that was impossible. Lord Tubbington doesn't have all his boy parts anymore. So finally I figured out he wanted the Ouija board and sure enough, there was a message." She held out a piece of paper to him and then stood by, beaming at her own cleverness and sneaking longing glances at the slippers on her feet.

Kurt didn't want to take the paper, but he did. Didn't want to read it, but after sucking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he unfolded it.

And stared at the print.

****J-O-H-N-1-5-1-3****

"I don't understand."

Brittany shrugged. "That was the message."

They sipped cocoa and talked for the rest of the afternoon, mostly about the strange chain of events that led Brittany to discover Lord Tubbington's extraordinary psychic abilities. Kurt was reluctant to say goodbye to the winsome blonde, knowing that all the warmth and color now in the apartment would depart with her. But eventually night fell. Owing to some champion pouting, Brittany succeeded in gaining custody of Kurt's slippers and after one last affectionate hug, she skipped away happy.

Kurt had neither the energy to cook nor the appetite to call for delivery. Instead he combed his memory and his address book for every guy named John he'd ever known, wracking his brain to figure out what possible connection the spirits were trying to make. But those numbers after the name meant nothing to him.

He finally stopped when the brain-wracking brought on a roaring headache. He took some aspirin and laid down.

And sat up. Google?

Nothing to lose. He opened a new browser window and ran a search. A series of names popped up – _John Brocket, died 1513; John Knox, born 1513; John Ramsey, died 1513_ and so on. He scanned further down the page.

_John 15:13_

Kurt was an avowed atheist. He'd never read the Gospels and didn't even own a bible. Why would the spirits –? No! Not '_the spirits_', just one spirit. One devout spirit.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Kurt clicked on the link.

_"Greater love hath no man that this, that he lay down his life for his friends."_

Kurt stared at the screen. He read the words out loud slowly, trying to absorb them. Then he moved to look out his window, letting images float past as he gazed into the silent night. For the first time in weeks, instead of a body torn and bloody, he saw a picture-perfect iris bouquet. Instead of screams and unholy clicking noises, he heard a deep rumbling laugh and a smooth baritone singing Sinatra. He thought of a sexy-shy smile and a desperate, burning kiss, of trusting eyes watching him disrobe by candlelight and hands mirrored in loving caress.

The tears welled up, but they were not unhappy tears. "Thank you, Dave," he whispered.

He let himself cry a little bit longer as he sat by the window. Then he got up with a light sigh, washed his face, did his evening moisturizing routine and climbed into bed.

For the first time in weeks, Kurt fell asleep peacefully, unafraid of the dreams to come.

_Finis_

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Author's Note:<strong>**

**** **Puck is butchering the saying: _Better to light a candle than curse the darkness_

So there you have it, the real ending of my story. Thanks for taking this journey with Kurt and me. - Ella


End file.
